


Get Off At The Right Stop

by YZYdragon2222



Category: South Park
Genre: Abusive Parents, Adorable Leopold "Butters" Stotch, Baseball, Boys Being Boys, City Wok, Cupid Cartman, Embarassing videos, Eric Cartman Being An Asshole, Eric Cartman does not know how to have feelings, Eric Cartman does not know how to relationship, Eric Cartman in Denial, F/M, Gen, Happy Ending, High School, Identity Issues, Jealousy, Kenny knows ;), M/M, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Pining, School Dances, Self-Worth, Voyeurism, Wingman Kenny, buttman, cartters, style
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2020-03-19 12:12:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 46,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18969061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YZYdragon2222/pseuds/YZYdragon2222
Summary: Cartman finds himself in the possession of a cursed video during sixth period algebra.  At least, hethinksit must be cursed, because there’s no other possible way a video could affect his life so badly.He will stop at nothing,nothing, to remove himself from the curse, but finds the process much more difficult than he expected, or wanted.Meanwhile, Butters is forced to embark on an exhausting emotional journey of discovery, only to be thwarted at every turn by his parents, Bebe Stevens, and Eric himself.Blood, tears, and...semen will be spilt.  Stan and Kyle are disgusted and horrified.  Clyde is heartbroken and vengeful.  And Kenny...well, Kenny is the only one unfazed.  Watching his friends run circles around their inevitable humanity is the story of his fucking life.  At least he gets to jerk off a couple times along the way.





	1. Algebra-Turned-Biolog(ical Reactions)

**Author's Note:**

> This is me dipping my toes into the South Park fandom! I've recently fallen HARD for Bunny and Cartters and was surprised by the sparseness of Cartters fics. This is my first little contribution, and it will be a relatively short, mostly lighthearted little multichapter. I'm aiming for 4 or 5; it may have more, but definitely less than 10. I have about a thousand fic ideas but I don't know how deep I want to dig myself into this rabbit hole. If this goes well, I might look into writing another, deeper, more complex South Park story. Or should I say...Bigger, Longer, and Uncut XD
> 
> Anyway, I suppose it goes without saying in the South Park fandom that there will be profanity. There will be controversy. There will be Eric Cartman. XD I definitely don't agree with Eric on...mostly anything, really--any religious, racial, or sexist content in this story is for the pure purpose of staying true to the character!

_If there’s anything worse than sixth period algebra, it’s sixth period algebra on a motherfucking Friday_ , thinks Eric Cartman. It’s fifty-two minutes of boring, mind-numbing torture wedged right between the drudgery of the school week and the sweet salvation of the weekend. The clock on the classroom wall seems to crawl just that much slower when freedom is actually in sight.

Cartman rests his head on his hand, his ears automatically filtering out Mr. Stedman’s droning lecture about simplifying square roots, or whatever shitty topic it is today that Cartman gives no fucks about. His eyes roam around the classroom in search of something to keep himself entertained. He rolls his eyes as he skims over Kenny, who is still bundled in that stupid, orange, mouth-muffling parka of his. The poor bastard is the only student wearing headgear of any kind; hats are technically forbidden at school, but the teachers let Kenny get away with this (along with a lot of other shit)—probably out of pity since the kid’s so fucking poor. Cartman wonders why Kenny doesn’t spare himself the agony of sitting through class by just offing himself. Dude can die with impunity but what does he do? Waste his fucking lives in school. _Lame_! _  
_

Cartman toys with the idea of shooting a few spitballs at his immortal friend, but ultimately decides against it. Kenny’s protective parka makes the effort futile. If only Stan and Kyle shared this period with Cartman! The brunet snickers under his breath as he imagines the stupid Jew pawing clumps of saliva and phlegm out of his faggy ginger hair.

Cartman continues his lazy perusal of his classmates, and it’s only after a few long moments that he realizes he’s stopped to stare at one classmate in particular, even though said classmate isn’t really doing anything entertaining—in fact, he’s doing the opposite: attentively listening to the teacher and jotting down notes like the dumbass dweeb he is. Butters is possibly the only kid in the world who would choose to go by a nickname even more ridiculous than his actual given name. Cartman observes Butters nodding along to Mr. Stedman’s lecture, his hand, scabby from the way he constantly knocks his knuckles together, moving across his notebook almost nonstop. _Good_ , Cartman thinks distantly, _I’ll be able to copy off his notes later._ Not that Cartman doubted Butters’s note-taking capabilities in the first place—if anything, the blond boy is the one who is always all too eager to share his notes with Cartman, alongside giving a totally unwanted dose of math tutoring to the brunet every afternoon. Cartman only allows it to happen because it’s as ample time as any to dish insults at his little minion. Besides, the look of Mr. Stedman’s shocked expression when Cartman had actually gotten an A- on his last test had been totally worth it.

Cartman is trying to think of a way to catch Butters’s attention so that they can ditch class together when he sees it. That tiny strain in Butters’s body, that furrow in his brow, that little jiggle of his leg. Would you look at that, the little shit needs to use the potty. Cartman had clearly told Butters not to drink so much chocolate milk at lunch, but did the retard listen? Obviously not. And only _Butters_ would display his need so obviously, like some incontinent little fourth-grader. Cartman studiously ignores the notion in his mind that to the untrained eye, it actually _isn’t_ so obvious—Cartman‘s just spent so much time around Butters that he’s learned to read his body language like a Playboy magazine. Cartman decides to make a game out of how long it’ll take for the blond to crack. Discreetly, Cartman fiddles with his phone in his pocket and starts the stopwatch. It reads 07:06.14 when Butters finally raises his hand.

“Do you have a question, Butters?” Mr. Stedman says, turning away from the chalkboard.

“Erm, well, yes I—I was just wonderin’ if I could use the bathroom,” Butters stutters in that weird, slightly Southern lilt of his. Some girls in the back of the classroom giggle, and whether it’s because they think the stupid crack in Butters’s voice is laughable or because they think he’s cute enough to fuck into next Friday, Cartman has no idea, but for some reason he has the sudden urge to slap the smiles off their stupid faces. _  
_

Mr. Stedman rolls his eyes. Butters is literally the only student left in the whole school who still bothers to ask permission. “You didn’t have to announce it to the whole class, Butters, this is high school, not kindergarten,” the teacher sighs. “Just go.”

“Why thank you, Mr. Stedman sir!” Butters chirps, shuffling out of his seat. The girls in the back of the classroom start giggling again, and Butters casts them them a confused look, oblivious to the fact that their laughter is at his expense. Several students in the front of the classroom turn their heads to roll their eyes at the bitches’ commotion, including Kenny.  But instead of glaring at the girls as expected, Kenny looks straight at Cartman, pinning him with a knowing stare. Despite the fact that most of his face is obscured from Cartman’s view, Cartman has known Kenny for so long that the latter’s hidden smirk couldn’t be any clearer. Cartman feels his rankles rising.

“The fuck you lookin’ at, fuckface?” Cartman barks at Kenny, effectively distracting everyone from Butters and the giggling girls. Kenny rolls his eyes and says something, but Cartman is too far away to hear the muffled mumbo jumbo properly.

“Eric, do you have something to share with the class?” Mr. Stedman asks impatiently.

“Oh, I wasn’t going to share, but if you insist,” Cartman says wickedly, and he can already see the regret in Stedman’s eyes for having asked, “I would also like to, hrm, use the bathroom. Oh, and in case you were wondering, it’s totally number two. In fact, it’s probably diarrhea.” _  
_

“Eric!” Stedman cried, sounding disgusted.  “You don’t have bathroom privileges, young man!” Oh, right. The school still remembered that time Cartman used needing to go the restroom as an excuse to attempting to set fire to the principal’s car.

“Oh really, Mr. Stedman?” Cartman challenges.   _As if a bunch of school administrator pussies can stop me_.  He strides to the back of the classroom, right next to the stupid girls who were giggling at Butters. “Because all that diarrhea is about _this_ close to coming out of my asshole.” With zero shame, he pulls down his pants and positions his ass right above one of the girls’ desks. “Ohhhhh yeah. I can totally feel it comin’. It’s totally gonna like, explode out of my asshole like a motherfuckin’ rocket. Is that what you want, Mr. Stedman? You want my diarrhea to spray all over your classroom walls? Is that what you do when the students go home, you stay in your classroom and jerk off to the idea of your students _shitting_ all over your motivational posters?”

The girls are now screaming and cowering as far away from Cartman’s asshole as they possibly can, and Cartman takes vindictive pleasure in their discomfort, letting out a few smelly farts for good measure. “That’s it, ladies. You know I used to have HIV, Mr. Stedman? Oh, I bet the press is gonna have a fucking field day when they find out a bunch of sluts got AIDS in your classroom.”

As Stedman and the rest of the class descend into chaos, Cartman forces himself to maintain a serious expression even though he’s guffawing on the inside. He knows there was no need to cause all this commotion just to convince the teacher to let him go to the bathroom (which, for the record, he doesn’t actually need to use), but what can he say?  He’s an asshole who loves mutiny and making people suffer.

The only one in class who appears unaffected is Kenny, who maintains his smirk and eye contact with Cartman. Cartman feels his good humor leaving him again. “Son of a bitch,” he mutters, already bored of his classmates’ antics and tired of Kenny’s gaze. “Screw you guys...”

He removes his ass from the girl’s desk and pulls up his pants, swaggering out of the classroom. The hallways are empty—Butters has probably already made it to the bathroom, oblivious to the chaos he left behind in class.  Cartman makes it all the way to the boys’ room without being disturbed. He loiters outside the door for a few moments, briefly debating whether or not he should go in. He ultimately decides to be benevolent for once and allow Butters to do his business in peace (part of the reason may be due to the traumatic experience in middle school during which Cartman accidentally startled Butters while the latter was peeing, causing him to flail wildly and spray the both of them with urine). In the meantime, Cartman considers the best approach to convincing Butters to ditch the remaining half hour of school and go fuck shit up somewhere else.  Threatening the kid had stopped working in middle school, when Butters had managed to adopt Professor Chaos’s spine in regular day-to-day life. 

Cartman whistles inanely as he waits for Butters to finish, but minutes drag by and no blond comes out of the bathroom.  Impatient, Cartman presses his ear against the door. Wendy walks out of the AP World History classroom in that prissy way of hers and enters the girls’ bathroom, throwing Cartman a look of deep dislike on the way. 

“Creep,” she mutters, glowering condescendingly at the way Cartman is pressed against the door.

“Bitch,” Cartman returns loudly, flipping her the bird.

It’s only when Wendy comes out of the girls’ bathroom (delivering yet _another_ glare at Cartman; _sooooo_ fucking predictable) that Cartman decides something’s fishy here.  It’s a plain and simple fact that boys don’t take as long to use the toilet as girls do—even the faggy boys like Butters...unless Butters is taking one hell of a shit in there.  In which case, Butters better wipe his damn ass because Cartman is tired of waiting.

Cartman is just about ready to barge into the bathroom and drag Butters out when something—call it instinct or whatever—comes over him, and he stalls.  Experience already dictates that he shouldn’t startle Butters mid-business, and yet he finds his own pudgy hands bracing the door gently and pushing it open as silently as he possibly can.  The janitor must have oiled the hinges recently, because it doesn’t even creak.

With one cursory glance, Cartman is able to determine that Butters isn’t standing next to any of the urinals or sinks.   _Is_ he taking a shit after all?  There are four stalls in the school bathroom, and the doors to the first three are obviously open. 

The fourth is very conspicuously _shut_.

And Cartman can hear Butters inside, panting softly. 

Cartman has no illusions about what Butters is doing.  Cartman isn’t _stupid_ , and he’s also a normal, healthy teenage boy with a penis.  Well...in retrospect, most certainly not a _normal_ teenage boy, and certainly not that _healthy_ either...but the fact that he has a well-functioning adolescent dick is not disputable. He also knows that Butters’s particular kind of heavy breathing at the moment is most certainly _not_ a result of expelling feces through the butthole. 

As if in a trance, Cartman silently sidles across the bathroom floor towards Butters’s stall.  He winces when his shoe scuffs the wall and makes a dull thud, but Butters doesn’t seem to notice because the rhythm of his breathing doesn’t change. 

Cartman positions himself carefully outside the stall so that Butters doesn’t see his feet.  For once, the brunet concedes to himself that perhaps he should lose some weight, because hiding in the shadows would be much easier if he were slimmer.  Still, Butters fails to notice his friend’s bulky feet underneath the door.  _  
_

_The fuck am I doing?_ Cartman wonders to himself.  This should be the part where he hightails the fuck outta here before he witnesses something completely gross.  Or, he should be barging into Butters’s stall and dunking that silly, blond, horny head into the toilet to teach the kid a lesson about masturbating in a place as public as school.  Instead, he’s inching towards the crack in the stall door like a motherfucking peeping Tom.  Being the selfish asshole that he is, Cartman isn’t at all hesitant about doing this for the sake of Butters’ privacy; it’s just that voyeurism (on a boy, no less) somehow seems, even out of all the things Cartman’s ever done, like a personal low. 

 _It’s not like I haven’t seen Butters’s schlong before_ , Cartman rationalizes.   _I’ve even put it in my mouth._  But he quickly shuts down that line of thought.  The combination of the words seeing-Butter’s-schlong-and-putting-it-in-my-mouth is making something stir in pit of Cartman’s belly.

But then, Cartman is struck with the idea of how to spin the situation to his own benefit. After all, he never _did_ properly get back at Butters for the Britney Spears video incident back in fourth grade, and that was, quite possibly, Cartman’s worst humiliation ever (never mind the fact that Cartman had been the one who started it, what with A.W.E.S.O.M.-O and a thousand prior transgressions inflicted upon Butters’s person).  Anyway, r _evenge, motherfucker_! Granted, years have passed since then, but revenge _is_ a dish best served cold or however the fuck the saying goes.  Careful not to make any sound rustling his clothing, Cartman removes his phone from his pocket.  He closes the clock application he’d opened earlier and turns the camera on. He licks his parched lips, hastily wipes his sweaty fingers on his pants and, with slightly trembling hands, holds his phone up to the crack and starts recording.

The screen of Cartman’s phone provides him with a much better view of Butters’s exposed skin.  And golly, is it _exposed_.  Butters long ago abandoned the practice of pulling his pants all the way down and shirt all the way up when taking a piss, but apparently he hasn’t abandoned the practice when jerking off in the privacy of a stall.  The boy might as well be naked, save his shoes and socks and the clothing bunched underneath his armpits and around his ankles. Butters is facing away completely from Cartman, so the latter can’t see any dick, but Butters’s fine, round white ass is level with Cartman’s vantage point and only a few inches away.  Only when bombarded with so much of it so close does Cartman realize for the first time how pale Butters’s skin is. It’s probably an unhealthy symptom of all the time he spends confined to his room due to the Stotches’ crackpot parenting, but all Cartman can think of at the moment is how Stephen Stotch managed to breed a soft, tender, delicious-looking piece of meat.  Butters’s paleness, combined with his shock-blond hair and startling blue eye (the left one is milky and unseeing from the ninja star accident, and therefore doesn’t count), makes Butters almost offensively Aryan, if not for the fact that Butters is inoffensiveness incarnate.

“Hey there, Mr. Wiener,” Butters mumbles as he jerks his hand back and forth at a moderately fast pace.  It’s completely hidden from view, but Cartman can hear the soft squelching noises of Butters’s fingers gripping his cock.  “Aren’t’cha awful happy today, little feller?

“Awww, yes, Mister—Mister Butters sir,” Butters replies himself in an indulgent voice, while still making the effort to deepen his voice slightly.  Let it not be said that Butters doesn’t take roleplaying a bit too seriously. “I’m just— _ecstatic_ , today.”

Cartman tries his best to steady his camera.  His body is shaking, but it’s not out of suppressed amusement.  He knows that he _should_ find this funny.  What kind of retard still calls dicks _wieners_ ?  What kind of loser talks to himself while jerking off?  Even worse, what kind of dork talks to his own goddamned penis and gives it an honorific?  In _high_ school?  

 _This is comedy gold, Cartman_ , Cartman tells himself. _Wait till I put this on the Internet.  South Park’s gonna have a fucking field day and Butters’ll be the ball_.  Cartman feels his gut tighten in response to his internal dialogue, and it feels like someone’s lighting a match inside his pants.  What he _still_ doesn’t feel is any urge to laugh.   

“You oughter be ashamed of yourself, Mister Wiener,” Butters says to his penis in his “normal” voice, oblivious to the discomfort he’s causing the friend who’s only a few feet away.  Somehow, Butters always manages to make Cartman suffer the most when he’s actually unaware of the latter’s presence. “You’re makin’ me miss Mr. Stedman’s lecture. Eric’s gonna be mighty angry if I miss the stuff that’s gonna be on the test.”

Cartman can’t help it; he lets out a squeak when he hears his own name uttered in Butters’s gravelly, aroused voice.  He’s horrified with the possibility that Butters might have heard him, and even more horrified that such a girly-sounding sound managed to escape his own lips.  He’s gonna have to edit out that part of the video.

Cartman doesn’t have time to worry about the latter, though, because it seems that Butters had indeed heard him.  The pale blond stiffens and turns his head slightly, eyes alert and ears straining. Cartman stuffs his fist into his mouth and holds his breath. 

Butters’s head is turned at an angle at which Cartman can now see a film of glistening sweat on the boy’s white, mostly unblemished face.  Of their entire age group, Butters had been the most successful at avoiding teenage acne. A few strands of blond hair are stuck to his forehead, and for a few breathtaking seconds Cartman is convinced that he is looking at threads of gold set upon white marble. 

Wh...what the actual fuck.  That...that had to be a trick of the light or something. 

Butters intently listens for disturbances for several seconds longer before turning away, taking the long silence as confirmation that the noise was just a fluke and his privacy remains uninterrupted.  If this were any other situation, Cartman would’ve ripped into Butters for his shitty vigilance, but the brunet concedes that it’s most likely not so easy to snoop for intruders when one is nearly naked with a hard wet cock out and flopping about. 

Cartman’s squeak seemed to have spooked Butters, though, because when the the golden-haired boy resumes jacking his dick, he does it at twice the previous speed, seeming intent upon finishing before he gets interrupted for real.  Cartman stares as Butters’s pearly white buttcheeks clench from the pleasure.

“F-f-fuck that Eric,” Butters growls with surprising aggression, and Cartman actually has to bite down on his own knuckles to keep from making noise.  “Fuck Eric, a-and his math notes, h-h-he can lick all my—all of Butters’ creamy goo for all I care.”

And Cartman—Cartman _remembers_.  That strangely intoxicating flavor of grape and bleach that is “Butters’ creamy goo”.  Cartman had sipped it out of a jar the last time; now he wonders how it would taste, fresh and warm from the source.  _  
_

“You’re a smart little rascal, Butters, you don’t need Stedman’s— _motherfucking_ —help—to teach Eric how to solve an equation, nnngh,” Butters groans, sounding equal parts angry and aroused now.  “Y-you’re—you’re so good at doin’ math, Butters, just like you’re good at chokin’ your _fuckin’_ chicken." _  
_

Cartman can barely believe what he’s hearing.  He’s no stranger to jerking himself off, but whenever he did it, it was no work of art.   _Passionate_ masturbation in it of itself sounds like a hilarious fucking oxymoron, yet here he is, a first-hand witness.  If Cartman didn’t know better, he’d say Butters was deliberately putting on a show. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised by the display.  After all, if there’s anything Cartman knows about Butters, it’s that Butters _never_ does anything half-heartedly.

Butters’s breathing is growing ragged; he continues to mutter to his own penis, but the garble is becoming unintelligible.  Cartman is somehow reminded of the muffled ramblings of a drunk, but Butters’s is much more concentrated. _Purposeful_.  Despite himself, Cartman finds himself straining his ears to hear whether Butters utters his name again.  From what he just witnessed, Cartman has no way of telling whether Butters is sexually attracted to him, or if Cartman’s name had slipped out due to circumstance. Prior to today, Cartman hadn’t truly given a fuck; Butters had always been a whiny little fag anyway, and if the blond was attracted to Cartman specifically—well, that only made for an even more loyal minion, and ultimately played to Cartman’s favor. 

But right now, Cartman isn’t satisfied with maybes.  He wants to _know_.  He is practically restraining himself from making his presence known to Butters, just to see if the latter would blow his load at the sight of him.

Butters parts his legs slightly wider as his hand speeds to a mad pace.  He throws his head back, and Cartman can just barely make out the top of Butters’s forehead and the tips of his gleaming eyelashes. 

Then, Butters’s entire body trembles and spazzes.  The boy quickly turns towards the toilet and ejaculates.  His lips are parted as he lets out a long, pleasured exhale.  For the first time today, Cartman is afforded a view of Butters’s schlong.  It looks like Butters really does “choke his chicken”, because his scabby hand is wrapped so tightly around his cock that it looks painful.  His balls are pulled taut against his body as he spurts a steady stream of white cum. Cartman can’t help but feel that it’s a waste for all that _creamy goo_ to be going down the toilet. 

It takes a few long moments for Butters to fully finish, and Cartman is reminded that this is the same kid who managed, as a _fourth grader_ , to produce enough semen to make an entire business enterprise out of it.  Puberty certainly hasn’t diminished his production capabilities.

Butters stays panting over the toilet bowl after he’s done, waiting for his cock to soften.  His eyes are hooded with content, and there are splotches of red coloring his cheeks.  Any sign of aggression he exhibited while masturbating is completely gone.  Cartman’s grown up enough to know that yes, Butters is more than capable of anger (scarily so), but he just never pegged Butters to be the angry _horny_ type. 

Cartman is getting really tired of how long Butters is taking just standing there.  He wishes the blond would at least just pull his pants up. The self-satisfied expression on Butters’s face is also pissing Cartman off, because it only serves to remind Cartman how much he himself is _not_ satisfied.  The spark of warmth in his pants has turned into a full-blown California wildfire by now, and there’s no way Cartman can alleviate his discomfort without making a some kind of sound that would immediately give his hiding spot away.  The friction of his boxers rubbing against it in his tightly-zipped pants _really_ isn’t helping douse the flames, either. 

 _The reaction’s entirely biological_ , Cartman repeats to himself like a mantra.   _It’s like watching a porno on the weird side of the Internet.  It makes you laugh out loud and grosses you out but by the end of the day you end up hard._

Eventually, Butters begins cleaning himself up.  He tears off some toilet paper and wipes his hands with it.  Then he tears off some more and starts wiping his dick.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, Mr. Wiener,” Butters says affectionately.  It’s immature and stupid, and it’s making Cartman even more...uncomfortable.   _Biological, bio-_ fucking _-logical!_ he insists to himself. _  
_

After what seems like a ridiculously long time spent pampering his softening cock, Butters finally, _finally_ lets his shirt down and pulls up his pants.  He tosses the soiled paper into the toilet and pulls the flush. 

Taking advantage of the noisy sound, Cartman quickly ducks into the third stall and climbs onto the toilet.  He pulls his feet up onto the seat just as Butters exits his stall. Butters walks right past Cartman’s stall without the slightest inkling that someone might be inside it.

Cartman curses under his breath as Butters takes his time washing his hands like a goddamn girl, singing “If You Leave Me Now” all the while.  Butters has been obsessed with that song since elementary school.  Cartman rolls his eyes when Butters’s voice cracks on the high notes and wonders if it would kill the kid to keep his mouth shut for five fuckin’ minutes.

The moment Butters exits the bathroom, Cartman slumps off the toilet and onto the floor in a heavy, undignified heap, no longer bothering to stay quiet.  He reaches out his arm to slam and lock the stall door shut. He’d get out of the goddamn bathroom, but he can’t—on account of the gargantuan (if he may say so himself) bulge pulsing in his pants.  He glances at his phone, which is still recording.  He quickly ends the video.

“Fuuuuuck,” he groans.  “Fuck!” He’s tempted to bash his head against the wall until his boner goes away, or, more preferably, he dies.  He’s uncomfortable and confused and has never envied Kenny’s power more. Unlike Butters, Cartman is not at all happy to see his own wiener, and since he’s not doing anything at all to relieve its tension, Cartman’s pretty sure his wiener isn’t happy to see him, either. _  
_

Cartman briefly considers using the next five, ten minutes to let his penis deflate on its own, but that would mean that Butters had inadvertently gotten him hard for absolutely no reason at all and that rubs Cartman the wrong way.  “Fuck this, I do what I want,” he mutters, standing up and unzipping his fly in one rough motion.

He tries to let his imagination wander as he spits in his hand and pulls out his hard cock.  For a few minutes he thinks of Wendy’s tits, only because he knows it would make the bitch mad as fuck if she knew that Eric Cartman was using her as masturbation material.  But he soon grows bored of it, so he instead thinks about the look on Scott Tenorman’s face at the precise moment he realized he was eating his parents. That shit was fucking _amazing_.  It gets him going again pretty quickly, but then it gets old just as fast.  Discouraged, Cartman looks down at his hand moving back and forth across his dick and is struck by the monotony of the routine.

_No way.  No way in fucking hell am I gonna talk to myself like a stupid schizo while I beat it.  That’s Butters’ job._

Butters _.  
_

Aw _, fuck._

Recollections of Butters’s marble white buttocks and gravelly voice come flooding back into Cartman’s mind.  Mentally, he tries to stop it, but Cartman can already feel his hand automatically speeding up, and it actually starts to really feel _good_.  Then he remembers the newly-recorded video on his phone.  Drunk on sexual frustration, Cartman turns his phone down to the lowest volume and plays it.  He holds his phone up to his ear so that he can hear Butters’s voice. He starts jacking himself to the rhythm of Butters’s heavy breathing.

And then he cums, suddenly and violently, when Butters utters his name. 

“Fuck!” Cartman swears aloud. 

He cannot fucking believe what he just did.  He just orgasmed, at school, in the middle of the school day, to _Butters_ fucking _Stotch_.  There’s really no way he can spin this tale to make it seem any less faggy, or pathetic.  Horrified, Cartman stares down at the phone in his hand like it’s cursed.

“Cursed,” he breathes.  That’s it, this video is fucking cursed. The government probably installed some weird voodoo tech into people’s phones and is using them to control the population’s libidos. Cartman’s finger hovers over the “Delete” button, prepared to wash his hands of the video once and for all and put this entire episode behind him.

But he’s reminded of why he took the video in the first place.  It there’s one thing about Eric Cartman, it’s that he _really_ hates leaving business unfinished once he’s started it.  Scowling, he removes his finger from the trash can symbol, moving instead to “Edit”.  He cuts out the part of the video where he’d startled Butters with his girlish squeak.  When he shares the final product on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram—PornHub, too, for good measure—Butters’s humiliation will be so complete that the little turd will probably kill himself or something, and then Cartman will truly have his hands clean of the aggravating blond.

But then Cartman envisions everyone—Wendy, Bebe, Jimmy, Clyde, Tweek, Craig, Kenny, Stan, the Jewish bitch, and some middle-aged pedophilic fag eating potato chips in their den—with their eyes glued to their computer screens as they listen to Butters growling _Eric’s_ name—and Cartman doesn’t feel any vindictive pleasure at all.  He feels a wave of vindictive _possessiveness_.

So he decides not to post the video on the Internet, either. 

Fed up, Cartman jams his phone into his pocket and hastily cleans himself up.  He bangs the stall door open and leaves the bathroom without washing his hands, because he doesn’t have fucking OCD. 

He doesn’t bother returning to Stedman’s class—not that he’d ever intended to.  However, he _had_ intended to ditch with his pathetic blond sidekick by his side.  But Cartman ends up sneaking off school campus all by his lonesome.  He desperately yearns for the company of someone to distract him from his own thoughts, but who besides Butters would—or could—fill that role?

He’s in no mood to throw shit at hobos or anything else.  Cartman goes straight home.

* * *

**Butters Stotch** 2:13pm

Hey Eric, I couldn’t help but notice that u were missing for the second half of algebra today we learned about multiplying and dividing square roots!!!! U still coming over later to study?

 **Butters Stotch** 2:37pm

Just got home :)

 **Butters Stotch** 3:23pm

Mom’s makin cookies :P I know u like choc chip

 **Butters Stotch** 5:02pm

Ure bein awful quiet today

Did something happen?

 **Butters Stotch** 5:15pm

Oh hamburgers are you up to something bad Eric?

Wait don’t tell me nothin about it!!!

I ain’t helping you this time

I really mean it

I really rally men it

*really mean

 **Butters Stotch** 6:28pm

You’re still welcome to come over Eric

Mom’s making dinner and it’ll be ready in 15

Dad’s coming home at 8:30 tho u have to leave by then or I’m grounded

Again :/

 **Butters Stotch** 8:43pm

Ok dad just got back so I guess I’ll see u over the weekend

 **Butters Stotch** 9:53pm

Eric? _  
_

 

Cartman groans when his phone pings again at midnight.  Kyle, Stan, Kenny, and Butters combined have sent him enough texts over the course of the afternoon and evening to blow up his phone.  Butters and Kenny are especially bad, since the two of them only got their phones recently (Butters because his dad is insane, Kenny because he’s so fucking poor); they run their text messages like they run their mouths.  Cartman has studiously ignored them all.

With a groan, he rolls over in bed (which he’s barely left since coming home from school) and grabs his phone from the nightstand.  He hopes the latest message isn’t Butters again. Every time Butters’s name shows up on his screen, he’s reminded of the video still sitting innocently in his Camera Roll.  Not that he hasn’t been thinking about it already.

Speak of the devil; it turns out to be Butters after all, who has sent Cartman several jpegs containing all the notes he took in Stedman’s class today.  His handwriting is cramped and slanted, but neat. He’s labeled the notes with three different-colored highlighters. One would never be able to tell that Butters had left in the middle of the lesson to go masturbate. It’s sickening.  Cartman rolls his eyes and is about to toss his phone away when Butters starts typing again..

 

 **Butters Stotch** 12:03am

Sweet dreams eric

In a moment of weakness, Cartman feels a pang of pity for the kid and decides not to leave him hanging for the night.

 

 **Eric Cartman** 12:04am

Wat r u, my wife????

It’s neither insult nor assurance, and it’s only after he’s hit “Send” that it occurs to Cartman that he should have used literally any other word other than “wife”.  He could’ve said “butler”, or "stalker", or even “slave”. He wants to slap himself.

Butters doesn’t reply, and even though Cartman knows that it’s probably because Stephen Stotch enforces a strict No-Phones-After-Midnight policy on his son, he can’t but feel slightly uneasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the first chapter! I'm aiming to finish this story quickly so that I can focus on bigger projects, so the rest of it shouldn't take too long to update. Please let me know what you think in your reviews! I can take your shit; I'm not easily offended. I DO watch South Park, after all. 
> 
> Just a few remarks about Butters's character: to me, underneath his childlike innocence, Butters is actually one of the more complex and darker characters on South Park. Cartman's easily the most evil, but his vileness is on pretty obvious display. I'm not going to get into the darker side of Butters in this fic, but I did make some allusions to the fact that our sweet little sunshine may not be all that he seems.


	2. Dick Polarity and a Dirty Ritual

Cartman has never been so horny and sexually frustrated in his entire life.

Most people at school don’t notice anything different about him, since Cartman was never much more pleasant than a porcupine in the first place.  Besides, most students’ interactions with him involve avoiding him or yelling at him—and his tongue returns their barbs just as ruthlessly as it always has.  A few students make offhand comments about how Cartman seems a little distracted, but they assume he’s busy plotting South Park’s next big scandal and don’t think twice about it.

Kyle and Stan have known Cartman for too long not to have an inkling that something’s up, but they’ve long since evolved past the point of giving a shit.  As long as Cartman’s PMSing doesn’t affect them, they know well enough to leave it alone.  Of course, that doesn’t stop Cartman’s and Kyle’s constant arguments about Jews, fags, and just about anything controversial.  World War 4 and Armageddon could happen simultaneously and those two would still be at each other’s throats.

Unsurprisingly, Butters is turning out to be the real problem—after all, he’s the cause of Cartman's inner turmoil in the first place.  The thing about Butters is that even though he’s stupid and ignorant about how the world works because of his sheltered upbringing, he’s still incredibly attuned to human emotions.  And because of all the time he’s spent specifically with Cartman, Butters doesn’t need five seconds to look at Cartman’s face on Monday morning to figure out that something's wrong. 

“Hiya, Eric,” Butters greets as Cartman grumpily shoves his backpack into his locker.  “I didn’t see you all weekend.”

Butters never ended up replying Cartman’s text about being his “wife”.  The two had exchanged a few idle messages over the weekend, but despite Butters’s multiple invitations to have lunch or dinner at the Stotch home, they hadn’t met up—which was weird, considering how hard it is _not_ to run into somebody in their tiny little Colorado town. 

“Yeah, and that must be why I’m feeling so fucking peachy,” Cartman retorts.

“But you have dark circles under your eyes.”

“Well, maybe they’re black eyes I got from punching myself in the face just thinking about having to see _your_ pathetic ass.”

“No,” Butters insists stubbornly.  “I know what _real_ black eyes look like, Eric, ‘cause of all the times _I_ got hurt 'cause of _you_.”  He smiles, looking harmless if not for the intense scrutiny radiating from his good eye.  Cartman groans loudly.

“Look, it’s like, seven in the morning, and I really don’t need anyone to suck my dick right now,” he snaps, even though he personally thinks that a blowjob right there and then would be nicely de-stressifying.  “So you can run along now, little bitch. Shoo. Shoo!”

“What the hell’s goin’ on with you, Eric?” Butters asks flatly. 

“Why the hell don’t you do us both a favor and buy yourself a ball gag and shut the hell up?”

Anyone else might've huffed, stormed off—perhaps even attempted to punch Cartman in the face—but Butters simply narrows his eyes at Cartman until the brunet feels like squirming in discomfort.  Just as Butters opens his mouth to say something else, Cartman turns on his heel and stomps away towards his first period class, which he thankfully doesn’t share with Butters. The image of Butters with a ball gag in his face is stirring up that familiar warmth in Cartman’s gut again.

At that moment, Kenny suddenly appears, seemingly out of fucking nowhere.  “Bad morning?” the orange bastard asks Cartman, voice so full of smugness that Cartman refuses to deign to respond, simply grabbing Kenny by the drawstrings of his parka and shoving him into the nearest locker.  Kenny, unfazed, fails to even cry out; instead,  muffled laughter can be heard  through the thin metal door of the locker, which turns out to be Jimmy’s.  The cripple promptly hobbles up and lets Kenny out, snuffing out Cartman’s amusement as quickly as it came. Then the cripple whacks Cartman in the shin with his crutch, putting the brunet in great pain.

But what's Cartman to do?  He's having an increasingly difficult time separating the nearly-naked, horny, angry-growling Butters in the video on his phone with the smiling, passive-aggressive, mild-mannered Butters he has to deal with on a daily basis in real life.  And the Butters in the video quite consistently causes a _biological reaction_ in Cartman.  Every time Cartman is in Butters's vicinity, he has to force his eyes not to drift towards the boy’s Creamy Goo Factory—in other words, Butters’s crotch.  Even then, it’s become something of a challenge not to become fixated on the kid’s pearly skin, or golden hair, or twatty mouth.   Stedman’s period of algebra has become the fucking worst, because Cartman is usually bored as all hell during that period, and with nothing better to do his gaze always manages to inadvertently drift over to Butters, as if there are magnets inside his fucking eyeballs or something. 

As the week progresses, Cartman takes to trying to avoid Butters, but quickly finds out that the endeavor is akin to escaping quicksand: the harder he tries, the more he sinks.  Whenever Butters approaches him, Cartman finds himself reacting standoffishly as a defense mechanism, which in turn makes Butters suspicious and attempt to prod Cartman even more.  It’s not the first time the brunet has tried to avoid someone, but it’s the first time he’s failed at it so badly. Probably because _he’s_ usually the one being avoided by everyone, and also because Butters is the one who always and unequivocally sticks with Cartman, even when everyone else gives up on him.  In the past, Cartman didn’t mind because he was always able to spin Butters's loyalty to his advantage.  He never thought it would come back to bite him in the ass like this.

The one thing Cartman’s successfully managed is to avoid Butters’s afternoon tutoring sessions.  He tells Butters that he’s busy at home preparing a surprise for his mom’s birthday, because Butters is a sucker for sickening, saccharine stories like that. 

“Aww, Eric, that’s awful sweet of you,” Butters replies with crinkled eyes and palms pressed together, finally backing down from his incessant torrent of _what-the-heck-is-goin’-on-with-you-Eric-you’re-bein’-a-real-asshole,_ and _if-somethin’s-botherin’-you-you-know-you-can-tell-me_.  “I knew you had it in you, buddy.  Give Ms. Liane _all_ my love.”

Cartman almost scoffs; only Butters would fall for a ploy like this one.  What teenage boy actually gives a fuck about his parents? Liane Cartman’s birthday really _is_ coming up soon, but Cartman isn’t planning _shit_.  He’ll give the bitch a box of condoms like he does every year, and only because he doesn’t want to end up with another half-sibling. One Scott Tenorman is bad enough.  And like _hell_ is he passing on Butters’s love to her, he’s keeping that shit for himse—

_Wait, what?_

...No, instead of planning for his mom’s birthday, Cartman spends his afternoons alone in his room—with the door bolted and padlocked for good measure—with his dick in one hand and phone in the other.  He’s got it turned to Airplane Mode so that none of his bastard friends can disturb him mid-business and kill his boner.  He goes to PornHub and looks for the most extreme gay videos featuring the whitest of blond boys, and most of them don’t make him bat an eye.   _Good_ , he thinks, _that means I’m mostly not gay_.  Some of the S&M clips actually make Cartman laugh out loud, because those silly bastards clearly have no idea what sadism _really_ means.  

Then there are some clips that actually _do_ succeed at riling him up a little, but Cartman doesn’t think too hard on that: it’s porn, after all.   It’s basically rigged to make you cum, even if you don’t like it.  But whenever Cartman’s teetering on the edge of an orgasm, panting like a dog and delirious in the head, he somehow ends up swiping through his Camera Roll again and playing the video from Friday.   In the privacy of his bedroom, he can turn the volume all the way up. 

When he finally orgasms and regains his brains, he can’t turn off the video fast enough.   _It’s no different than watching porn_ , he tells himself.   _In fact, it’s a whole lot tamer_.   But watching Butters is different from watching porn, because the latter would never leave him feeling so mentally exhausted, disgusted, embarrassed, a tiny little bit guilty, and insanely desirous for _more_.

Stedman’s test on square roots falls on Wednesday, and Cartman gets a D, though it has less to do with missing his afternoon study sessions with Butters than it has to do with how distracted he is with the way Butters thoughtfully chews his bottom lip during the exam.  When Butters catches up to him after class and asks how he did, Cartman shrugs like he doesn’t give a shit, but he is surprised to find that he actually feels ashamed about receiving the lowest possible passing grade despite the blond’s painstaking, sickeningly color-coded notes.  It’s the first time Cartman’s actually feels bad about getting a bad grade—caring about grades is for pussies like Stan and Kyle, after all.

It’s Friday again.  It’s been a full week.  Cartman plans to ditch sixth period and go straight home.  He feels stupid for ducking behind a locker when he sees Butters walking towards Stedman’s classroom in the hallway, but he doesn’t want to risk Butters prying about why he’s ditching again.  He’s so invested in avoiding the blond thorn-in-his-side that he fails to notice another annoying blond creeping up to him. 

“Have fun, dude,” Kenny says lowly without even looking at Cartman.  He ducks out of the way before Cartman can grab him and shove him into a locker again, slipping into Stedman’s classroom right behind Butters. 

Fucking hell, that _bastard_.  Cartman really needs to kill Kenny one of these days. 

Cartman half-jogs the short way home, eager for the privacy of his bedroom, and ends up winded as fuck.  He blames South Park’s high elevation—the air must be thin up here. In addition to the tightness in his chest, Cartman can already feel the tightness in his pants.

He stops dead in his tracks halfway up the stairs of his home when he is hit with a gross realization: _he’s becoming addicted to jerking off._

His hormonal teenage body is raging at him to not give a shit and jerk off anyways, but Cartman’s powerful sense of pride chooses this moment to reign over. With a few deep breaths, he turns around and heads back downstairs, settling instead on the living room couch. 

 _If I’m going to get addicted to anything, it’s going to be heroin, because that would be fucking_ awesome _, and it’s going to be because I fucking_ chose _to get addicted,_ Cartman thinks to himself.  Because more than Cartman loves masturbating, he hates not being in control more.

He rests his head in his hands and begins analyzing his predicament critically.  

One week out of control has been too long.  Time to find a way to fix this.

* * *

**KB, EC, SM & KM**

**Eric** 3:07pm

Oh my god guys get ur butts over here

There’s something important n like I need u guys right now

 

 **Kenny** 3:14pm

Ya ok I guess??? sure

Kyles still @basketball practice tho

 

 **Eric** 3:15pm

Basketball practice my ass

Kyle

stop sucking marsh dick n get over here

 

 **Kenny** 3:19pm

Nope just got to the basketball court n no dicksjcking unfortunately

Kyle says hi or something like that

 

Kenny sends a selfie of himself sitting on the school gymnasium rafters.  Members of the school basketball team can be seen in the background.  Kyle’s stupid ginger hair sticks out like a sore thumb as he glares at the camera with two middle fingers held up in front of his ugly mug.

 

 **Kenny** 3:19pm

Token looks like he’s getting some tonite tho

Nichole’s right next to me rn watching him play

N I can practically smell the cream in her pantiws

*panties

;D

 

 **Eric** 3:19pm

Don’t u dare fuck her you greasy orange slut

Cupid me almost died for tokole

 

 **Kenny** 3:20pm

Cupid m

Wait wtf

Wait no don’t tell me, u fucking weirdo

 

 **Eric** 3:20pm

Go fuck urself

 

 **Eric** 3:23pm

Wat time does Kyle finish suckin his basketball buddies dicks

 

 **Kenny** 3:25pm

@4

 

 **Kyle** 3:24pm

For the love of God fatass, I am NOT sucking anyone’s fucking dick

 

 **Kyle** 3:25pm

Stop interrupting our practice

 

 **Eric** 3:25pm

Don’t insult god with your dirty Jewish mouth, brofovskj

 

 **Kyle** 3:25pm

It’s Broflovski you fucking idiot, you’ve only known me for more than 10 years

Never mind, it’s probably your fat fingers that keep squishing all the keys at once

And you do realize that Jews, Muslims, and Christians share the same God, right?

 

 **Kyle** 3:26pm

Kenny, if you’re just gonna sit there and let the fatass harass me, then go the hell away

Shit I gotta go back to practice

 

 **Eric** 3:26pm

If that’s what helps you slep at nite, cocksucker

Have fun suxking cock

 

 **Kenny** 3:26pm

XD

XD

XD

XD

XD

XD

 

 **Eric** 3:27pm

DUDE

 

 **Kenny** 3:28pm

Wait so how illegal is the thing u need us for

 

 **Eric** 3:30pm

not every brilliant idea requires breaking the law u fucking criminal

Also where the hell is satan

*Stan

 

 **Kenny** 3:30pm

LOLOLOL

also, axcurate

 

 **Stan** 3:40pm

Jesus Christ you fuckers are unbelievable

I’m at butters house

 

 **Eric** 3:43pm

Butters

Why

 

 **Stan** 3:45pm

We paired up for music project

 

 **Eric** 3:45pm

He didn’t tell me he was getting invovled in stupid shit with u

 

 **Stan** 3:45pm

Why shoul;d he have lol

Fyi He has his own life outside of you

 

 **Eric** 3:45 pm

If butters is involved for music ur definitely gettin an A

Y do u still need to convene at his house

 

 **Kenny** 3:45pm

Wow someone’s salty

 

 **Eric** 3:46pm

i

I’m not fucking salty, I’m losing my fucking patience cuz I asked you cunts to get over here more than half hour ago and how many of you are here

NONEthats how FUXKNG many

 

 **Kenny** 3:46pm

I already told u that kyles still at practice

Jesus Christ u really r touchy this week

 

 **Stan** 3:46pm

No need to get your panties in a twist Cartman lol

I’ll be there if it’ll stop your bitching

Just FYI I’m bringing dad’s gun just in case you try anything

 

 **Eric** 3:48pm

Lmao u think Randy’s pathetic little pussy pistol scares me

 

 **Stan** 3:48pm

Lol then I’ll borrow butters dad’s assault rifle

 

 **Eric** 3:48pm

wEak

 

 **Stan** 3:48pm

Lols wtv

it’s your death not mine lol

Should I bring butter

*Butters

 

 **Eric** 3:49pm

Why would u bring him

Don’t u think there’s a fucking reason I didn’t include him in the chat

Use ur dumbass brain retard

 

 **Stan** 3:51pm

Geez!

I was just asking god

 

 **Kenny** 3:51pm

U don’t want Leopold there what a surprise

 

 **Stan** 3:51pm

Thought we agreed to include Leopold in our group activities lol

Don’t want to go HAM on us like last time lol

 

 **Kenny** 3:51pm

Ya bro leopold walks a fine line between Dalai Lama and Charles manson lollll

 

 **Eric** 3:51pm

Stop calling him leopold

 

 **Kenny** 3:52pm

Leopold

Leipold

*Leopold

Leopole

*Leopoll

*Leopold

 

 **Eric** 3:52pm

Kenny I swear I will kill you

Anyways doichebags its all part of the plan

Don’t even tell him ur coming here

Stanley

 

 **Stan** 3:53pm

You’re killing me with the secrecy here Cartman

 

 **Kenny** 3:56pm

I on he other hand

am already dead

Lolololilll

* * *

It takes the three gaywads a while, but they all finally end up at Cartman’s house.  Stan and Kyle exchange worried looks as Cartman waves them up the stairs. Cartman rarely invites anyone upstairs anymore, except Butters, who is the only one he trusts not to mess with his possessions.

When Cartman opens the door to his bedroom, Kyle immediately halts.  “No way in hell, I am not going within ten feet of the pigsty where you roll around in your own filth at night, Cartman.”

“Don’t talk to me about filth, you dirty fucking Jew!  You know what the American soldiers saw in Auschwitz, now _that_ was a fucking pigsty with Jews rolling around in their own shit—“

“They weren’t rolling, you fucking _monster_!  They were—starving!  Dying! Being tortured by your all so wonderful _German—_ ”

Stan pinches the bridge of his nose; he does that so often that it’s surprising he doesn’t have an actual bruise there.  “Are you two seriously doing this again?”

Kyle spins like a top and turns on his boyfriend.  “ _Us_ two? He’s the one started it with his Holocaust-denying bullshit!”

“Ay, I didn’t deny that it happened!  I just don’t get why everyone makes such a big deal out of it!  They were just Jew—”

“Shut up the hell up, Cartman,” Stan interrupts hastily, legitimately concerned that Kyle’s head will explode from rage.  “Come on, Kyle, you know what Cartman’s like. It’s not like his opinion is worth a damn, so it’s not worth riling up your pretty head over it.”  Cartman scoffs loudly. Stan turns back to Cartman with a glare. “Let’s just get this over with so we can get the hell out of here. I swear, Cartman, if there’s any funny business…”  Stan pulls a handgun out of his jacket pocket threateningly.

Kenny whistles appreciatively.  “Don’t worry Cartman. I’ll protect you,” he laughs, voice dripping in sarcasm.

Cartman rolls his eyes, unwilling to admit that he’s a little impressed that Stan actually followed through on his threat.  What a nice, fuzzy little group of friends they are.  “I _said_ Randy’s pussy pistol doesn’t scare me, Stan.  What happened to Mr. Stotch’s big bad rifle?”

Stan cracks a small smile, and just like that, the tension is broken again.  “How was I supposed to ask Butters for it without letting him know I was coming here?  Besides, it’s not like Butters would let me have it, anyway. I think Mr. Stotch would literally kill him with it—or worse, ground him _again_.”

An uncomfortable silence briefly settles over the group.  Stephen Stotch is far from their favorite adult in South Park, and it’s not even like his competition is all that great, either. 

Ultimately, it’s Kenny who moves first, leading the way into Cartman’s room.  Kyle still looks extremely reluctant, but ultimately follows on Stan’s tails.

Once they’re all inside, Cartman closes, bolts, and padlocks his door.  Kenny rolls his eyes at Cartman’s paranoia, but Stan and Kyle are immediately on edge. 

“You do realize that you can unlock these from the inside, right?” Cartman huffs.  “It’s not like you’re trapped here. This is just to keep anyone from coming in.”

“Yeah, you’re really helping your case here, fatass,” Kyle says. 

“Trust me, you don’t want my mom walking in on us,” Cartman explains.

“...Walk in on us?” Stan asks nervously. 

“What the hell is going on?” Kyle demands.

Cartman doesn’t reply them.  He walks to the bed and sits down on it heavily.  Kyle doesn’t understand how the damn thing hasn’t fucking collapsed from all these years of supporting Cartman’s fat.  Cartman pulls out his phone and starts scrolling through it while his three friends awkwardly stand around the bed, staring at him.  

“Well, make yourselves comfortable,” he says without looking up at them.

Stan and Kyle and don’t budge, but Kenny shrugs and takes off his parka.  He’s about to toss it on the bed when Cartman holds up his hand to stop him.

“Not on the bed, McCormick,” the brunet snaps.  “I don’t need your poor people germs all over my sheets.”

“Fuck you, Cartman,” Kenny glares, his voice unmuffled for once. He takes his parka and very deliberately walks over to Cartman’s wardrobe.  He tosses his oversized orange jacket atop a pile of Cartman’s clothes.

“Son of a bitch!” Cartman complains.  “Those were clean, too. Now I’m gonna have to do laundry.”

“Yeah... _clean_ ,” Stan snickers, making air quotes.

“You should be thanking Kenny for giving you an excuse to wash your stinking clothes for once,” Kyle adds, smirking crookedly.

Cartman flips them all the bird, but allows them this small victory so as not to get too sidetracked from the task at hand.  He’s a master at feigning nonchalance, but in truth, he’s a bit queasy about what’s about to happen.

He puts down his phone.  “Okay, you guys, look, okay?  Before you say anything, know that I am doing this entirely for your benefit, because you’re my best friends and I love you guys.”

“Oh?” Stan scoffs.  “This is totally not suspicious at all…”

“Okay, okay.  Listen to me closely, okay?  Lean in a little closer, uh huh, yeah, just like that.”  Cartman takes a deep breath. “Okay. I need all of you to take off your pants.”

“Wh— _what_?” Kyle screeches.

“Hell no!” Stan says emphatically.  Then his eyes widen as Kenny stands up and starts unbuckling his belt.  “Kenny, what the hell?”

Kenny shrugs nonchalantly, shimmying his way out of his jeans.  “I don’t really have anything to lose here,” he points out. “You and Kyle have eyes only for each other, and it’s not like Cartman’s gonna want to get anywhere near my 'poor person germs' anyway.”

“Yeah, listen to Kenny for once,” Cartman nods.  “And relax, there’ll be no touching. Of each other.  I swear, if you and Kyle get faggy on my floor I will—“

“Of each _other_?” Kyle yells. 

“Yeah, _Kyle_.  Just, pull out your _own_ dick, okay?  I know it’s hard for you faggots to control but just _one_ dick per person.”

“Okay, _now_ this is a little weird,” Kenny admits.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Kyle says, holding up both hands.  “Are you seriously telling us you want to compare dick sizes, Cartman?  With _your_ chode?”  Kyle throws his fiery head back and laughs.  “Aren’t we a little too old for this shit?”

“I do _not_ have a fucking _chode_ , Kyle!” Cartman protests indignantly.  “And I don’t want to compare dick sizes.  I want you to jerk off.”

Because Cartman has finally figured it out. He is only so damn affected by _Butters’s_ video because he _knows_ Butters in real life.  Those dickheads in the pornos? They mean nothing to him—not that Butters holds that much significance to him either!  But if he was forced to spend every day at school with one of those porn stars—sit through lunch with them, listen to Stedman’s boring lectures with them, have them badger him incessantly with concerns about his well-being, whilst continuing to act like Cartman had never seen their dicks before—well, of course that would screw with his mind! 

And thus, the only way to reverse the—how would Kyle put it?—ah yes, the, erm, _gay arousal polarity_ , would be to get the rest of his friends to beat it for him as well.  Even out the playing field. Of course, Cartman would’ve preferred _not_ to have to watch _any_ of his friends masturbate, but Butters had forced his hand (literally and figuratively). Fucking Butters.

A beat of silence follows Cartman’s announcement, followed by an inhumanly deafening screech only Kyle could possibly be capable of producing.

“ _WHAT_?”

“It’s all part of becoming a man, Kyle—it’s all part of the ritual.  This is a bonding exercise. This is the next level shit after comparing dick sizes.  You gotta jerk off for your best friends,” Cartman explains levelly. “You know, you see who does it best, see who lasts the longest, and all that.  And as your manliest friend—“ he puffs out his broad chest proudly— “it only makes sense that I oversee your rite of passage.”

“I call _bullshit_!” Kyle yells.  “Like you know anything about manliness, you, you—you’re just a fat, whiny, overgrown kindergartener is what you are!”

“Like you know anything about anything, you fucking Jew!”

“That again. So fucking original, Cartman! I definitely know that this is a pile of bull crap!  You’re just a perverted fat fuck! Like hell I’m enabling your sick fantasies!”

“ _Fantasies_?  Please, like I have any interest in your circumcised Jewish cock!  I already told you, this is for _your_ benefit, not mine!”

“Stop saying that like it’s some kind of anomaly!  You’re circumcised too!” Kyle spits, throwing his hands into the air.  “That’s also not remotely the point! How could you lock us in your room and ask us masturbate in front of you and say it’s for OUR benefit?”

“I could’ve asked you asses to come individually, you know—but I was thoughtful enough to consider that you’d be more comfortable doing it around your sex slave—” Cartman points at Stan—“and the South Park slut.”  He points at Kenny with his other hand. “And you aren’t locked in here, Kyle, I already told you that, but since your Jewish brain can’t retain any information apparently, I’ll say it again: this—” he gestures at the padlocked door— “is just to keep anyone from coming _in_.  Go ahead and leave if you’re such a pussy!” 

And to finish off his tirade, Cartman crosses his arms and juts out his bottom lip slightly in a defiant pout.  Stan and Kenny exchange looks; that pose is entirely Butters’s, and it looks alien on a brute like Cartman. They wouldn’t have thought it possible, but it looks like Butters has rubbed off on Cartman, just a little bit.  Neither of them bring it up, though, lest Cartman literally murder them and somehow make it look like suicide.

Kyle, however, is too riled to notice.  “Yes, I _am_ leaving, but not because I’m a _pussy_ , it’s because I’m not completely fucked up like you are.  Jesus, I can’t believe you interrupted basketball practice and wasted all of our time for your delinquent perversions.  Remind me never to give a fuck about a single word coming out of your mouth, ever again. C’mon, Stan.” He marches over to the door and starts messing with the lock.

Stan, however, doesn’t follow immediately.  Seeing Cartman adopt one of Butters’s signature poses made him think of something.  “Not that I buy your bullshit story, Cartman, but if you really wanted us to feel ‘comfortable’ with each other, then why the fuck isn’t Butters here?  In fact, why were so you adamant that Butters _not_ be here?”

Cartman hesitates for a little too long, and this time, even Kyle notices.  “Yeah, fatass, you’re normally abnormally obsessed about getting Butters involved in your Satanic schemes.”

“Why would I want that limp dick pooping our party?” Cartman argues defensively.  “Little virgin probably hasn’t even touched his own nipples before. His stupidity would just make all of us uncomfortable— _what_?”  He asks the three pairs of severely skeptical eyes.

“First of all, bullshit,” Stan says.  “I’d rather die, but if you put a gun to my fucking head and told me to jerk off, I’d be least uncomfortable doing it in front of Butters.  Kyle, you don’t count,” he adds quickly, shooting an apologetic look at his boyfriend. “I just meant like, outside people, y’know? And Butters doesn’t judge.  At least, not out loud he doesn’t.”

Kyle looks contemplative for a moment, then nods, conceding Stan’s point. 

“Second of all,” Stan continues, “bull _-fucking_ -shit.  Butters is sixteen like the rest of us, and even on the off chance that he hasn’t touched himself before, _you_ always take a certain sick pleasure in breaking his innocence, Cartman, in the worst fucking way possible.”

Before Cartman gets the chance to put up a defense, flimsy as it might have been, Kyle gasps loudly. 

“You motherfucker!” the ginger accuses.  “You totally made him do it for you already, didn’t you!  You knew that we would stop him, or tell him that it’s wrong, which is why you were so adamant about him not coming here!”

“Not true, Kyle!”

“That makes you a sexual predator, fatass!  You’re basically a rapist!”

“I never touched that little fag!”

“You might as well have, _rapist_!”

“Look, I didn’t ask him to do anything, okay!  If he wasn’t such a horny little motherfucker—“

“Ha!” Stan cries.  “Earlier you said Butters probably hasn’t touched his own nipples before, but now you call him horny!”

“And before you say anything, ignorance doesn’t mean consent, Cartman!” Kyle adds.  “In fact, this is fucking worse. This is like pedophilia!”

“You guys are totally blowing this out of proportion!  He didn’t even know—“

“Didn’t know _what_?”

 _That I was there_ , Cartman finishes silently.  He purses his lips, cursing himself for letting that slip. For once, Cartman is not guilty of their accusations.  Well, not all of them. Yes, he _did_ watch Butters masturbate, but he didn’t _make_ Butters do it, and the little virgin had _clearly_ known what he was doing without _any_ help from Cartman at all.  But it’s not like he can tell them any of that.

Kyle finally succeeds in prying the padlock open, and slams open Cartman’s bedroom door with a _bang_ .  Stan quickly stands up and follows him. 

“Stay away from Butters, you sick piece of shit,” the black-haired teen warns.

“I’m warning you, Cartman, if you pull this shit again, I will seriously cut off your dick and…” Kyle pauses for a moment, unsure how to follow up that threat.  “...I was gonna say feed it to you, but you’d probably enjoy that too much, since you seem to like eating garbage.”

The volatile couple then dramatically stomps away, making a hellish racket on their way down the stairs.  “You could’ve closed the damn door, asswipes!” Cartman shouts after them. “And I’ll have you know that I am a motherfucking connoisseur of food!”

The slamming of the front door of the Cartman residence can be heard in response. 

“Sons of bitches,” Cartman harrumphs moodily.  He clambers off his bed and slams his bedroom door shut again.  It’s only when he’s turned back around that he realizes, with a start, that Kenny is still there, sitting on the floor in naught but a T-shirt and boxers.  “What the fuck, Kenny. You’re still here?”

Kenny smirks.  That seems to be all the bastard does these days—smirks like he knows everything.  “Kyle and Stan mean well,” he says. “But they’re too hot headed to realize that you’re the kind of person who’d rob a grave to steal all the riches inside, but not to fuck the corpse.”

“Mind speaking in the English language?” Cartman says.  “Not everyone can understand your poor-person lingo.”

Kenny rolls his eyes at the weak insult.  “You’re a manipulative fuck and a terrible person to boot, but you’re not a rapist.  I’d even venture to say you have a pretty healthy _dis_ interest in sex, at least compared to your penchant for hurting and murdering people.  In fact, aren’t you and Butters the only virgins left out of the five of us?”

“I’m not a virgin!” Cartman splutters hotly, though his red face gives him away.  “And why are you grouping me with _Butters_ , of all virgins?”

“It’s okay, _Eric_ , Butters doesn’t _judge_ ,” Kenny singsongs, echoing Stan’s words.  “And I can understand why you wouldn’t want Butters to get, hm— _tainted_ , shall we say, by this little party.”

“Wait, that’s not why I—“

“—And that’s also why, as the most knowledgeable about sex out of all your friends, I’d be more than happy to do this— _ahem—“_ Kenny clears his throat to stifle a laugh— “favor for you.”

Cartman has more than a problem with half the things Kenny just said, but his protests die on his tongue when he comprehends what Kenny is implying.  “What...really?” he says, sounding subdued for once.

“Yeah, sure, I’d love to help the oh-so-great Cartman become a man,” Kenny says. 

“I’m more of a man than you’ll ever be,” Cartman grumbles, but there’s not much heat behind his words. 

Kenny stands up, hooks his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, smiles in that sultry way that’s somehow gotten half of South Park to bend over for him.  Cartman doesn’t understand the phenomenon; however good Kenny feels up the ass can’t possibly make up for the bitch smirk he wears like he thinks he’s rich or something. 

“So, you gonna do this too or what?” Kenny asks.  “I mean, if this is anything like comparing dicks, I’m gonna need another dick to compare to.”

Cartman pauses for a moment.  His first instinct is to refuse.  But the point of this entire exercise is to graduate from beating off to Butters, and like it or not, Kenny is the key to the diploma.  The quicker Cartman gets this out of the way, the quicker he can reverse the dick polarity or whatever the fuck it was that he’d decided to call this, and go back to his normal life.  Besides, it wouldn’t be gay because Kenny is _Kenny_ ; the bastard is barely human as it is, right?  And despite Kenny’s reputation of sleeping around, the boy doesn’t kiss and tell.  Half of the people who _say_ they’ve slept with the McCormick are probably just trying to show off to their friends, and the only way anybody knows Kenny isn’t a complete bluff is because no one’s penis can have _that_ good reputation without some serious truth to it.  Cartman knows that word of this will never get out. It’s not even like he’s planning to have sex with Kenny, anyway.

“Yeah, whatever,” Cartman concedes, hands moving reluctantly to his fly.

Kenny smiles, and for once it looks genuine.  With one swift motion, Kenny tugs down his boxers and tosses them into a corner. 

Cartman stares at Kenny’s bared form.  It’s awfully strange to see Kenny half-naked, considering that barely half of his fucking face can be seen most of the time.  Still, Cartman finds himself a little underwhelmed by the oh-so-infamous “hot bod”. Despite Kenny’s blond hair and blue eyes, he lacks the Aryan refinement possessed by those like...Butters.  Kenny’s skin is pale, because his parka is probably thick enough to protect him from fucking radiation (though Kenny would probably still find a way to die), let alone sunburns. Still, Kenny’s natural complexion is a shade darker than Butters’s, more of a pleasant peach than the latter’s marble white.  His legs are covered in a fine fuzz the same dirty blond shade as the hair on his head, and while most bitches seem to find that particular aspect rugged and handsome, Cartman just finds it dirty-looking.

Kenny walks back over to Cartman’s wardrobe and digs around the pockets of his parka.  He pulls out his phone and a bottle of lube; Cartman is unsurprised that Kenny carries lube on his person.  Fucking slut.

In the meantime, Cartman has unzipped his pants and pulled his cock into his hand.  Like hell is he undressing all the way like some prostitute, like Kenny almost has. Cartman glances at Kenny’s schlong and is miffed by the fact that he and Kenny are roughly the same size.  Not that Kenny is small—it’s just that Cartman’s... _rotund_ physique makes his dick seem smaller in comparison with the rest of him. Cartman hates that he’s always felt a little self-conscious about the fact, and he resents that Kenny can parade around in near-nakedness with such confidence.

Kenny raises his eyebrows when he sees Cartman’s dick, but doesn’t comment.  “Mind if I put on some porn?”

“Can’t you use your own fucking imagination?” Cartman snips.   _That’s what Butters did,_ an unwelcome inner voice adds.

Kenny laughs.  “Dude, creativity really isn’t my strong suit.”

“Fine, do what you want,” the brunet sighs.  He really wants to just get this over with already.  Just standing around like this in his bedroom with Kenny is getting really awkward, really fast.

Kenny starts playing some loud, heterosexual porno.  “Dude, look at those titties,” the blond purrs appreciatively, turning his phone around to show Cartman the screen.  Both the man and woman are dark haired, and Cartman finds himself immediately disinterested.

“They’re so fucking fake,” Cartman deadpans, referring to the tits and the actors’ loud moans both.  Kenny shrugs as he pours a generous amount of lube directly onto his cock and starts stroking. Despite his lazy pace, the blond hardens up pretty quickly.   _Figures_ , Cartman thinks, _it_ _must come with being a goddamn slut_. 

Cartman, on the other hand, is having a hard time getting a hard on at all, which, considering how this week has been playing out so far, is a first.  His cock only feebly comes to life even after he strokes it twice as hard and fast as Kenny. That sleazy look on Kenny’s face as he watches his goddamn porno is turning Cartman off faster than a fucking salad.   _Unlike Butters, who’d been intense, yet innocent.  
_

“Oh yeah, baby, that’s really hot,” Kenny says, his eyes still glued to his screen.  The actress in the video screams fakely, and Cartman can hear her pussy squelching as it takes the guy’s dick.  Kenny continues to moan his appreciation, and Cartman wonders if Kenny is doing it just to be a dickhead, or if he’s legitimately this loud when he jerks off.  

“Dude, can you shut the fuck up?” Cartman snaps when he can’t take it any longer. 

“Huh?”  Kenny looks up as if he’s only just realizing that Cartman’s in the same room. “Oh, sorry, yeah,” he smirks unabashedly.  “I’ll zip it.”

And just like that, Kenny turns his motormouth off like a switch, and Cartman knows for certain now that Kenny was just being loud to annoy him. _Butters basically talked nonstop too, but it wasn’t fake or deliberate like Kenny, he was rambling like he couldn’t control it—_

In an attempt to turn his attention away from Butters _yet again_ , Cartman focuses his attention on Kenny’s hand.  There’s no doubt that Kenny is a pro, considering the way his fingers push and pull at his dick, occasionally lathering attention to the slit at the head and to his balls.  But...it’s lazy and boring, Cartman realizes.

“Can you speed the fuck up?” Cartman asks impatiently before he can stop himself. 

Kenny looks up again and cocks an eyebrow at Cartman’s barely-half-hard dick.  “Yeah, sure,” the blond replies, making brief eye contact with the brunet.

And Kenny speeds up, his breaths growing a little shorter and beads of perspiration blossoming on his forehead and neck.  Cartman observes him closely, and it takes him a moment to figure out exactly what Kenny is missing: _passion_.  But he can’t exactly ask Kenny to have more “passion” without sounding like an idiot, so he purses his lips in silence.

Frustrated, Cartman wraps his fist around his cock so tightly that it actually hurts.  To his surprise, the pain actually gives him the first spout of real arousal all afternoon.  He never would’ve pegged himself a masochist. _The way Butters was holding his dick looked like it hurt, too—_ Cartman digs his nails into his cock and bites his lip in appreciation—

Cartman barely gets two good strokes out of his finally fully hard dick when Kenny pants, “Shit Cartman, I’m gonna—”

Kenny tosses his phone onto the bed and hurries to the trash can by the bathroom door.  He spills his seed atop Cartman’s discarded candy wrappers and empty bags of potato chips.  It’s all terribly anticlimactic. _Butters had a lot more creamy goo_ , Cartman thinks. 

Kenny turns around with cum all over his hand.  His face is flushed pink with satisfaction. Still grasping his dick, the blond strides over to Cartman’s nightstand like he owns the place and takes a couple of tissue papers to wipe himself off.  “Whoo! That was a good one,” he says in a painfully chipper tone. Then he looks down at Cartman’s cock. “Well, looks like you lasted longer than me,” Kenny chuckles mockingly. “Were we supposed to finish together?  I can keep going if you want?”

Suddenly, all Cartman can see is red.  Kenny was supposed to help him, but the slut’s already finished himself off and the revolution of Cartman’s thoughts around Butters still hasn’t changed its orbit one bit. His boner deflates in his rage, and he shoves it back inside his pants.  Cartman straightens himself up to his full height, which, combined with his girth, he knows is massive and intimidating.

“Get the fuck out, you fucking whore,” he growls.  He’s already putting the pieces together in his head.  Kenny acted just like those dickheads in the pornos, which is precisely why his display didn’t help Cartman in the slightest.  If anything, Cartman’s more frustrated now than he has been all week, which is _really_ saying something, considering that the frustration levels this week have already been off the charts.

Annoyingly, Kenny doesn’t seem at all shocked or scared by Cartman’s sudden change in behavior.  At an almost lazy pace, Kenny starts picking up his scattered articles of clothing from off the floor.  “Hope I helped,” he says as he pulls his boxers back on. “I gotta say, though, Cartman, you certainly are picky.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well, first you wanted me to use my imagination, then you thought I was being too loud, and then I was being too slow.  Geez, so needy. You’re just like a girl, you know?”

“Shut the fuck up!  You were just being an irritating little bitch on purpose!”

“It’s not like you told me there were gonna be requisites,” Kenny retorts with a shrug.  “Thought this was just some ritual we were supposed to get over with.”

“It was!”

“It’s okay,” Kenny says placatingly, like he’s talking to a child.  He pulls on his pants and starts threading his belt through the loops.  “There’s nothing wrong with knowing what you like. Titties are what really do it for me, y’know?  Especially those big ones, even if they’re fake.”

“That’s—totally lame!  Shut up!” Cartman yells, disgusted. 

“Sometimes we figure out these things through process of elimination, and I guess I’ve been eliminated from your...wish list.  I wish I could say I’m sorry, but you’re really not my type, Cartman.”

“After today, I don’t even want to ever see your dirty bitch ass again, much less touch you with a hundred-foot pole!”  

Kenny finally finishes dressing.  He pulls up the hood of his parka, then leans in really close to Cartman’s face so that their noses nearly touch. 

“I’m sure _Leopold_ wouldn’t mind using his imagination, you know,” he says in his muffled yet completely comprehensible voice.  “For the...ritual, of course.”

Kenny winks, then turns on his heel and strides out of Cartman’s bedroom, leaving the brunet sitting alone of his bed, completely speechless.  Cartman suddenly realizes that he’s already balls deep in this and it might be too late to pull out without consequence.

Whatever _this_ is.

...And maybe dick polarity doesn’t exist after all.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kyle is totally the type who writes text messages with perfect grammar and spelling. Stan overuses "lol", and Kenny just likes being an annoying shit 
> 
> FYI, I think Kenny is as hot as a chili pepper, but Cartman is biased against him because whether he realizes it or not, his heart's already being held hostage by another blond ;) Also, Kenny totally realizes this and is doing his best to give Cartman a "nudge" in the right direction. I'd argue that Kenny's methods are questionable, though. Horny teenage boys *sigh*
> 
> Writing this made it seem like I have some kind of fetish for pale blond boys lol. That's all Cartman! I generally prefers my men dark-haired in real life lol!
> 
> Eric, how can you be an evil mastermind yet so dumb


	3. Breakfast's Very Own Episode

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took off in quite a different direction that I'd originally intended. Things get a lot more philosophical. If you find this chapter boring, then *fuck off* JKJK then I promise the next one won't be as bad.

“Of course Butters wouldn’t mind using his fucking _imagination_ ,” Cartman seethes to himself after Kenny leaves on Friday evening, no longer caring that he sounds like a crazy person for talking to himself out loud.  “That’s practically all he does, prance around in his magical fakey-fake fairy fagland.” _But that place must be pretty amazing if it can make Butters cum like that...kid didn’t even need to watch a porno, like that bastard Kenny did, or even look at a magazine..._ like hell is _Kenny_ the best at sex if he’s so damn uncreative!  If Kenny is the best by South Park’s standards, then the whole damn town has got brains like their prostates...small, overly needy, and pathetic…

Cartman gnashes his teeth together for the umpteenth time as he thinks about the way Kenny said Butters’s name—or rather, Butters’s _birth_ name.  Cartman _hates_ it when people call him _Leopold_ ; _Leopold_ is the name of stiff aristocracy, of snobby _royalty_ , like that King Leopold from Belgium who single-handedly caused, like, a whole bunch of Congolese to die.  Fuck those Congolese, man, for being...black. Yeah. Butters is nowhere _near_ that amazing. 

Lots of kids at school don’t think Butters is even a Butters anymore.  The new kids that they didn’t go to elementary and middle school with usually laugh when Butters introduces himself as Butters, thinking it’s some kind of joke or something.  Even some of the old gang think that Butters is a Leo now. He’s grown up, they say. He’s changed. He’s not that soft kid anymore: he’s more assertive now, stronger, even _scary_ sometimes...

And even if those things have a degree of truth to them, Cartman knows that Butters is still _Butters_.  Soft and pathetic to the core, just as pathetic as he was as a fourth-grader...just as sweet, _sickly_ sweet, like butterscotch...Butters Stotch...he may have been named Leopold upon birth, but Cartman is sure that he was a Butters the moment he was conceived.  It sometimes feels like Cartman’s the only one with brains enough to see that.

Well, maybe Kenny too.

Fucking _Kenny_.  Cartman grinds his teeth together yet again, shaking his head furiously to shake the memory of Kenny jerking off from his brain.  If only Kyle and Stan hadn’t pussed out like the fags they are, then maybe Cartman’s plan would’ve worked. But try as he might, he honestly can’t see himself getting aroused by the idea of the Jew or his submissive black-haired bitch getting off.  In fact, thinking about it now kinda makes Cartman want to castrate himself.

Still, he never should have trusted Kenny—Butters’s so-called “other best friend”.  And suddenly, Cartman figures it out: Kenny and Butters must be scheming, they must’ve laced Cartman’s food with some weird-ass magical weed that Kenny grows in his backyard.  Some shit that makes Cartman unreasonably aroused by the mere thought of Butters’s pale skin.

Well well well, that simply won’t do. 

First, Cartman decides that he’ll simply have to get rid of the both of them, but then he realizes that that would be a bit impossible to execute on Kenny’s end, what with the immortality and all.  Fine, he’ll spare the poor asshole for now and put up with those infuriating, knowing smirks for a bit longer.

As for Butters, Cartman contemplates killing him.  It wouldn’t be the first time. Contemplating killing Butters, that is.  Both Linda’s and Stephen’s sides of the family have histories of mental instability as deep as Bebe Stevens’s vagina is rumored to be.  It would be ridiculously easy for Cartman to make the whole thing look like suicide.

But he ultimately rules against it, because what if Butters’s gay voodoo charms still work after he’s dead, and Cartman ends up jacking off all over his naked white dead body?  That would make it a lot harder to frame the thing as suicide, and it would also make Cartman a necrophiliac, and call him millennial or whatever, but he doesn’t much care for that particular label. 

 _There you go again, making another excuse not to kill the freak_ , an inner voice tells him.  He shushes it.

There’s another way to “get rid” of Butters, he supposes.  It’s a lot more troublesome and involves a lot more bullshit than the simple act of murder, but it does involve several of Cartman’s favorite things.  Clothes, manipulation, and makeup.

“Let’s roll with this motherfuckin’ shit,” he mumbles, then promptly stops talking to himself.  That’s enough cray-cray for one day.

* * *

Butters wakes up at 5:30am every morning to watch the sun rise over South Park’s rugged mountains from his bedroom window.  The sun is warm and soft when it is still young, and it paints the sky in pastel pinks and yellows.  South Park’s quiet, empty, early-morning streets are basked in a golden glow, giving the illusion that the place is really just the sleepy, peaceful little mountain town that it so very much isn’t.  Normally, Butters hates illusions or deceptions of any kind.  But the sun is as real as it gets. He can count on it to rise every morning to cast its soft warmth upon his heart.

It’s a pity that the phenomenon lasts only a few minutes.  The sun climbs higher into the sky, growing bolder as it does so, and the magical golden glow of dawn fades away, leaving behind the same ol’ South Park that Butters knows so well.  He loves his hometown, he really does, but...it really is a town of extremes.  The weather is extreme, the people are extreme, the politics are extreme. The adults are opinionated to the extreme, and the kids are brutal to the extreme.  Butters wonders what kind of extreme _he_ is, or if he is, yet again, the South Park anomaly. 

“I’m extremely _different_ ,” he answers himself out loud.  As a kid, the notion of being different from his friends and fellow South Parkers would’ve made him sad, but somehow, it doesn’t really upset him that much anymore. 

It’s Saturday today, and now that the sunrise is over, Butters gets back in bed but is unable to fall asleep.  He has nothing to do until his mother comes and “wakes” him up.

They don’t realize it, but Butters’s parents are also extreme, but in a different way from the rest of South Park’s batshit parents (like, most notably, Stan’s dad).  Stephen and Linda are extreme in the sense that they try so, so hard to make the Stotches a happy, picture-perfect sitcom-esque family.  But when anything is out of place, when the facade chips away and things start falling apart, Butters’s mother will fall into hysteria, his father into rage, and the two of them will sacrifice _anything_ —and more often than not it’s Butters’s well-being—to reset things back to “normal”.   And when things do go back to “normal”, Stephen and Linda have the uncanny ability to act like nothing ever happened.  Butters often wonders to whom exactly his parents are trying to prove themselves. To their _son_? If that were the case, Butters wishes they would stop trying.  He would love them even if they were as poor as the McCormicks, or as promiscuous as Liane Cartman.  Heck, he loves them in spite of everything they’ve unwittingly put him through over the years. However, he can’t exactly tell them this without getting sent to a mental hospital or grounded, so he keeps his mouth shut and lets them play their favorite game of _happy-family-until-Dad-gets-caught-with-his-dick-in-another-guy’s-butt-again_.

On Saturdays, the game goes a little like this: Linda would get up first, throw on her favorite apron, and start  making breakfast for her boys. Shortly afterward, Stephen would get up as well, kiss his wife good morning in the kitchen, pour himself a cup of coffee, then sits at the table and read the paper. 

“That smells delicious, darling,” he would say.

“Why thank you, honey,” Linda would respond.  “I’m making waffles with strawberries, and bacon!  I know they’re your favorites.”

“That sounds wonderful, dear.  And just where is our son this morning?  Still in bed? Shouldn’t he be up by now?”

“Oh Stephen, it’s Saturday, let him catch up his rest! He may not be the top of his class, but our Butters certainly does work hard.”

The banter would continue in a similar fashion between the two, who’d be none the wiser of their son lying wide awake, the superficiality of their conversation making the weight of loneliness crushing him even heavier. 

Butters always pretends to still be asleep when his mother finishes cooking and comes upstairs to wake him up, because the genuine, gentle, motherly smile on her face when he pretends to blearily blink his eyes open at her and mumbles a sleepy, “Good morning, Mom,” is worth it.  And when she leads him downstairs and his dad looks up from his newspaper to ask, “How’d you sleep, son?” Butters always smiles brightly and says, “Real good, Dad!” because the genuine, pleased, fatherly pat-on-the-back that his dad gives him is worth it too. 

Butters often feels stupid for feeling lonely.  He has parents who _do_ love him, even if though go about showing it in a very strange way, and he has so many friends now, which is a real step up from his elementary school days.  But he still feels misunderstood; often his friends see him without actually _seeing_ him.  Sometimes, he even gets the impression that Stan and Kyle are only nice to him out of some skewed sense of obligation.  They’d feel guilty if they didn’t, since they’ve grown up enough to know that it’s “wrong” to be mean to the “nice kid”.

Or maybe they’re just scared that being mean to Butters will cause him to snap again, like that last incident where he completely lost it, even worse than the way his mother does sometimes, and genuinely tried to kill them all, out by Stark’s Pond.  It’d been Eric who’d pinned him down and stopped him from doing something he’d’ve regretted for the rest of his life.

Eric.  Another of South Park’s extremes, though to be honest, Eric takes the word “extreme”, does the whoo-hoo in its butt, then takes its bloody carcass and ships it on a rocket hurtling straight for the Sun.  Eric’s not an extreme by South Park’s standards. He’s extreme by _Earth's_ standards, which, considering the planet on which they live, is honestly pretty _fucked_. 

No one understands why Butters has stuck by Eric’s side.  Most of them rationalize it as Butters being his usual stupid self.  For a while, Butters assumed that was the case, as well.  But deep inside, he knew that he wasn’t really that stupid, so he finally got around to sitting down and thinking carefully through why exactly he always goes back to Eric like a boomerang. 

...Well.  It’s because Eric doesn’t pretend.  Well, that’s not exactly true. He _does_ pretend, and is better at it than Leo DiCaprio for that matter—when he _wants_ something, that is.  Usually, it’s to manipulate someone into some devilish scheme.  Butters himself has been duped by Eric’s acting skills way too many times to count. 

But when the gig is up, Eric doesn’t bother hiding his deviousness.  He doesn’t pretend that it was all an accident. Whenever he hurts Butters, Eric never says that he didn’t mean it, because he _did_.  Eric openly relishes in causing pain to others and being an asshole.  That’s...not really a great thing at all, but Butters is so tired of living among scoundrels pretending to be saints that it’s actually refreshing when a devil doesn't hide his goddamn face.

Of course, that’s not the only reason Butters puts up with the brunet’s shit.  But the second reason is a more selfish one.

It’s because Eric actually _sees_ Butters.  After Butters’s psychotic breakdown incident, Stan, Kyle, and even Kenny had tiptoed on eggshells around Butters, offering heartfelt apologies and platitudes Butters had never wanted.  Not Eric, though.   Eric had ripped into him for neglecting to at least deal some serious damage to “the fucking Jew” during his episode (never mind the fact that it was Eric who had stopped him in the first place).  He’d ranted for a bit about Butters’s stupidity, then said, “God, you wasted so much of my fucking time. Time is money, Butters, it’s motherfucking money, and you’ve put me like, two days behind my plans because of your bullshit.  Get your ass up, we have _so_ much catch up to do.”

Butters can’t really remember what it was Eric had ended up wanting to to do that time, because he was still reeling from the brunet’s use of the word “we”.  No, Butters wasn’t clueless enough to think that Eric did or would ever consider the two of them equals, but he’d always thought that Eric only included him in his machinations because of Butters’s easy compliance and relative harmlessness.  However, over the years, Butters had repeatedly proved that he wasn’t an obedient little bitch anymore, and his breakdown had more than demonstrated that he wasn’t at all harmless.  At any point, Eric could’ve easily paid their old elementary school a visit and either threatened or bribed one of the fourth-graders to be his new lackey. But no, here they are now, sixteen years old and in high school: one evil brunet mastermind and his blond, well-meaning but sorta mentally-unstable sidekick, still busy fighting the world together.

The only explanation is that their years of camaraderie _do_ mean something to Eric after all, and that he no longer wants just any mindless, easily-manipulated assistant by his side: he wants _Butters,_ the unpopular, weird Stotch kid. 

This particular week, however, Eric has been the weird one.  Butters wonders what his problem is. He doesn’t wholly believe the _my-mom’s-birthday-is-coming-up_ excuse and is even more bothered by the fact that Eric finds the need to feed _Butters_ , of all people, some bullshit excuse. Still, as always, he gives Eric the benefit of the doubt and the genuine smile that he’s sure no one else bothers to give the larger boy any longer.  Meanwhile, he’ll have to figure out another way to coax the problem out of Eric. And get a nice little birthday present for Ms. Liane. Butters likes Eric’s mom a lot. He hopes the part of Eric’s probably-an-excuse about it almost being Ms. Liane’s birthday isn’t actually a lie.

Butters shakes his head, trying to get rid of his errant thoughts.  He listens to his parents’ superficial conversation, and senses that his mother’s almost finished cooking breakfast.  Soon she’ll come up the stairs and fetch him. Butters closes his eyes and burrows his face deeper into his pillow—

 _Ding dong_!

Butters bolts upright.  Downstairs, his parents’ conversation stills, and Butters can practically hear the gears turning uncomfortably in their minds as they try to figure out how to deal with the interruption of their Saturday morning routine.  Eventually, there is a screeching of a chair—that means Dad’s put down his morning paper and headed for the door.

 _It’s probably one of the boys from the new Mormon church in town_ , Butters thinks, _tryin’ to spread a little Latter-Day faith_.

“Oh, uh...morning, Stephen.”

Oh hamburgers.  Unless Butters’s ears are deceiving him, that distinctive voice could only belong to one Eric Cartman. 

In a slight panic, Butters reaches for his phone, which is tucked under the mattress the way his dad likes it.  “To prevent you from using it in the middle of the night, Mister,” Stephen had said.

 

 **Eric** 8:58am

Yo fagg i’m coming over

 

 _Aw, shit.  That was ten minutes ago.  Eric’s gonna be hella pissed that I didn’t see this_.  When they were kids, Eric used to barge straight into the Stotch home like he owned the place, straight up the stairs and into Butters’s bedroom—a lot of the time, Butters wouldn’t even be home when it happened, and would come back to find Eric reading comic books on his bed.  Butters can’t pinpoint when it started happening, but Eric stopped doing that in favor of asking Butters to meet at the Cartman house, or texting before coming to make sure that Butters would be the one to answer the door.

When Butters asked why, Eric had said, with an inscrutable expression, “Because your folks are insane, repressed, abusive freaks.  I’m Eric motherfuckin’ Cartman, bitch. I don’t waste my time with freaks.”

The label seems to mostly apply to Butters’s dad, because Cartman is still willing to come over and eat Linda’s delicious cooking—though he rarely interacts with her when he does.  And for that reason, Butters hasn’t witnessed Eric truly having a conversation with his parents for a very long time. It’s strange, really: Butters knows that Eric has no problem sassing around their other friends’ moms and dads, _especially_ Sheila Broflovski.  Now that he’s taller than Kyle’s mom, Eric has absolutely no problem calling her a bitch, or worse, to her face. 

Oh hamburgers, Butters really hopes that Eric doesn’t treat his mom and dad the way he treats Mrs. Broflovski. 

Downstairs, Butters’s dad says stiffly, “Eric…!”  He sounds surprised. “Uh, well. Good morning, young man.  Can we help you?”

“Where’s Butters?” Eric asks bluntly.  Okay. Blunt isn’t great, but at least he’s not full-on raging rude.

“I’m afraid he’s still in bed,” Stephen says. 

“Our darling Butters will be up soon, for breakfast,” Butters hears his mom say.  Apparently, she’s joined her husband at the door.  “I was going to go wake him up—perhaps you can pass your message on to him then, Eric?  If you don’t mind waiting for him to brush his teeth? Just don’t mind his crankiness in the morn—”

“Now, now, darling,” Stephen interrupts firmly, asserting his masculine dominance over his wife, as always, “weren’t we going to have breakfast together?  Weekend mornings are a time for the family!” Oh hamburgers, Butters can just imagine the pointed look his dad must be giving Eric right now. “I’m sure you understand, young man.  You could come back later.”

_Aw geez, this is where Eric’s gonna totally bust Dad’s balls about “family time”—and about how no one tells him what to do—_

“Yeah, whatever. Make sure he gets the message. I need to talk to him,” Eric says.  

What?  That’s it?  No classic Cartman-esque hissy fit, or a saccharine manipulation à la Cartman?  What the heck is this?

Before he can stop himself, Butters throws off his covers and, still in his pajamas, bounds out of his room and onto the stairs.  He’s stops halfway down and blurts out, “Hiya, Eric!”

Three heads swivel around to stare at him.  Butters does his best not to wilt at the awkward attention. _Dad doesn’t like it when I “wilt”_.  “Mornin’, Dad,” he tries to greet just as cheerily as he did Eric.  It’s easier with his mom, though: “Do I smell bacon, Mom? Oh boy, my stomach’s grumblin’ already!”

“Darling, you’re awake!” Linda beams, because simple praise from her son does truly make her happy. 

“Yeah, I heard the ringiddy-ding-dong from my room,” Butters quickly explains.

“Oh,” Linda concedes.  Butters can tell she’s a little disappointed she didn’t get to kiss him awake.  But fortunately, she recovers and says, “I made waffles too, isn’t that exciting?”

“Gee whiz, it sure is, Mom!” Butters exclaims.  Then he turns to look at Eric. “Gosh darn, Eric, where are my manners?  Do you wanna join us for breakfast? Mom cooks a mean meal!”

Eric is looking at him like he’s grown a second head.  Butters knows that he’s overplaying the enthusiasm, but the only way his dad will let Eric stay for breakfast is if he plays the part of good host. 

 _Wait, wait_.  Why does he want Eric to stay for breakfast?  Eric thinks his parents are freaks, and Butters knows that his parents are definitely not fans of the young Cartman (to be fair, considering all the things that Eric has done, their dislike isn’t unjustified).  A whole heckin’ meal at the same table sounds like a recipe for disaster.

There’s a beat.  “Oh, that sounds like a great idea, Butters,” Stephen says, and Butters internally winces at how fake it sounds.  “Oh, but darling, did you cook enough for four?”

“It’s fine, Mr. Stotch,” Eric cuts in smoothly.  “I already had breakfast.” And then he grins a sharkish, predatory grin, and Butters is almost surprised that Eric’s teeth aren’t filed to a point just to emphasize it.  “But I’ll stay for a few pieces of bacon.”

Eric most certainly does not stay for a few pieces of bacon; he stays for a small mountain of it, and two stacks of waffles as well.  It’s a good thing that Butters’s mom always cooks more than enough food on weekend mornings, most likely to make the dining table look full and impressive (which again begs the question: who is she trying to impress?).  Even so, knowing Eric’s appetite, Butters subtly cuts down his own portion of breakfast by more than half. He’s fine with it; he’ll stop by Tweek Bros later on and get himself one of those pastries they’ve started selling.  Tweek has turned out to be one heck of a baker.

After about ten minutes of sitting on the edge of his seat, Butters finally begins to relax.  He’d expected either gritty battle of passive-aggression or a full-out war complete with rage and tears between Eric and his parents.  He has no idea what they’d fight about, but considering the childhood history between Eric and Butters, what with the penis-in-mouth thing, the bomb shelter thing, the fake suicide thing, and a lot of other...things, he’s sure they have more than a few ample topics to go around. 

But there’s nothing like that at all.  Stephen and Linda have always been amazingly good at talking about nothing, but to Butters’s surprise, Eric responds to them quite congenially.  As they talk, Butters realizes that Eric and his parents have quite a lot in common—though not aspects that Butters likes about either party. Eric positively _preens_ when Linda admits that she doesn’t much favor Sheila Broflovski’s cooking because she finds kosher food boring, and he and Stephen heartily complain about South Park’s influx of immigrants together.  Then the three spend a good few minutes dissing the McCormicks.

“Oh, I do hope their little girl ends up all right,” Linda says.  “Heaven knows their boys haven’t.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” Eric agrees with a glint in his eye.  “Like, we go to school with Kenny, right? Downright irresponsible kid.  Skips class, smokes—and I’m not talking about the stuff Randy is into.”

 _Bull crap_ , Butters thinks.  Well, it’s true that Kenny does those things, but so does Eric, just not as often.  With the way Eric’s talking, Butters automatically knows that Kenny must’ve done something recently to piss Eric off. 

“It’s a shame, really,” Stephen drawls.  “If those McCormicks only knew to ground their kids for misbehavior, then perhaps they would’ve turned out more like Butters here.”

Butters feels disappointed that one of his dad’s rare instances of praise comes at the expense of one of his closest friends.  “C’mon now, fellas,” he says disapprovingly. “I don’t think Kenny turned out bad at all. I mean, I certainly ain’t all on board with some of his...life choices, but he’s got a heart of gold and he’s a loyal friend. I tutor him for English and he’s actually pretty darn smart.”

Unfortunately, all Butters’s little soliloquy earns him is three expressions of exasperation.  Wow. He’d never expected to get ganged up upon by Eric and his parents at the same time. “Geez, was just sayin’,” Butters pouts, folding his arms and jutting out his bottom lip a little. 

Still, he can’t help the little smile that threatens to break out upon his face.  It may not be in the most ideal way, but three of the most important people in his life are actually gettin’ the fuck along. 

His desire to smile doesn’t last long, though, because his dad chooses this moment to get extra embarrassing.  “Are you gay for your friend Kenny, Butters?” he asks matter-of-factly.

Butters splutters over his orange juice.  He descends into a coughing fit that his dad tries to help relieve by patting him on the back.  “There there,” Stephen says. “Now answer the question, Butters.”

As Butters recovers from his coughing fit, he glances at Eric out of the corner of his eye.  He expects Eric to be smirking at him, on the verge of adding fuel to his dad’s unfounded suspicions—but instead, he finds Eric staring down at the table with a furious expression on his face.  He can’t for the life of him figure out why Eric is mad. Teasing Butters for being a fag is basically Eric’s favorite pastime.

“Absolutely not!” Butters exclaims when he finally catches his breath.  “K-kenny’s just a good friend! He’s never been anythin’ more!”

“I suppose he’d be okay for a date or two,” Stephen continues like he hasn’t heard him.  “Nothing long-term, you don’t know what diseases those McCormicks carry.”

Butters wants to sigh. His Dad rejecting anything “long-term” actually has nothing to do with Kenny’s McCormick blood. No; even though Stephen Stotch has deigned to accept any potential queerness in his only son, Butters knows that the man still believes that Butters’s ultimate path should lead to a good ol’ traditional marriage with a good ol’ traditional homemaker of a wife and the good ol’ passing down of the Stotch family name to a new generation of mentally unstable, perpetually grounded kids.  Queer relationships are just fun little appetizers to the real deal. Little things to warm up your belly, but ultimately inconsequential. Stephen’s internalized homophobia must be one of the worst cases Butters has ever seen or heard of, and he wonders how much his dad must hate himself. The thought makes him ache with sympathy.

But of course, _that_ conversation has no place at the breakfast table, or perhaps anywhere, ever, so instead, Butters just says, “Kenny doesn’t have any diseases, Dad.” As much as Butters thinks Kenny overuses his wiener, he knows that the other blond is very responsible about being careful and safe.

“Isn’t the school dance coming up soon, dear?” Linda pipes up.  “Maybe you could go with young Kenny. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to attend with a nice middle-class boy like you.”

Butters suppresses a snort.  Butters’s parents truly have no idea how social stratas work in high school.  Kenny, poor or not, is hot enough to be the last person in danger of going dateless to the dance.  “That’s not necessary, Mom. Kenny’s very nice, but I _really_ don’t like Kenny that way.”

“Well, maybe you should take what you can get, Butters,” Stephen says, and the sad thing is that the man genuinely believes that he’s giving his son good advice, not dealing yet another crippling blow to his self-esteem.  “Lord knows your looks aren’t doing you any favors with the girls! It’s really too bad you inherited your mother’s plain looks.”

Linda appears unaffected by this comment, far too accustomed to her husband’s abuse to even bat an eye by this point.  “Oh, and it doesn’t help that our poor darling’s eye is so viciously disfigured!” she cries sadly, kissing Butters on the head.

Butters scowls and shrinks in his seat.  He hates when his parents talk about him like he’s defective or something.  It’s much worse than when the bullies at school say mean stupid shit just to try to get a rise out of him.  His mom and dad don’t actually intend to hurt his feelings at all, which means that they genuinely see their son as unattractive and damaged.  It’s nothing Butters doesn’t already know, but he still wishes they hadn’t displayed it in front of Eric. Butters really doesn’t like it when Eric is privy to his moments of weakness.   

He can feel the three of them staring at him—or more specifically, his unnervingly milky-white, ruined eye, and out of self-consciousness, he lifts his hand with the intention of covering it up, hiding it from view—

A pudgy hand shoots out and grabs his wrist, forcing it back down to the table and leaving all of Butters’s face unexposed.  Eric doesn’t make eye contact with the shocked Butters; instead, the brunet is levelling a cold glare at Butters’s parents.  It’s the cold and dangerous Cartman glare, but as Eric’s fingers remain wrapped firmly around his wrist, Butters feel a tingle that has nothing to do with fear run up and down his spine. 

“C’mon, shitheads, that’s not _cool_ ,” Eric says calmly, the word _cool_ rolling off his tongue in that strange accent of his.  Butters kicks Eric under the table for calling his parents shitheads, but Eric kicks right back (and owie, is Butters’s shin gonna bruise) and continues talking like nothing’s happened.  “Butters is right, it’s not about the money or the looks, it’s about the ‘tude. And Butters—” Eric slings an arm around a very stiff Butters’s shoulders— “he’s got the ‘tude, brah, he’s got the _‘tude_.”

“...What does ‘tude’ stand for?” Butters squeaks after a long moment of awkward silence.  It’s clear from the bemused expressions on his parents’ faces that they were wondering the same thing. 

Eric heaves a long-suffering sigh and mumbles under his breath about someone _living under a rock in the goddamn 21st century_ .  To Butters, he says, “‘Tude is _attitude_ , Butters.”

“I have...attitude?  Is that why I keep on gettin’ grounded?”

Eric rolls his eyes but doesn’t answer Butters’s question this time.  “What I’m saying is, Butters doesn’t need to settle for a lowlife slut like McCormick.  You haven’t seen him at school, Mr. and Mrs. Stotch. He has bitches clambering all over him at school because of his charm, bi- _tches_.”

Butters frowns at Eric, wondering if the heavyset boy is defending his honor to his doubtful parents, or mocking him with untruths about his school status.  Butters may be less of an outcast than he was in elementary school, but he does not have bitches anywhere near his body, at school or anywhere else, unless you count actual female dogs, in which case—yeah, he’s befriended a couple of friendly strays that hang around behind the school—

“If that’s the case, why haven’t we seen any girlfriends around, Butters?” Stephen asks curiously, and Butters cannot fucking believe that his dad is actually taking this conversation seriously. 

“I’m—uh—there’s not—it’s not—” Butters stammers unintelligibly. 

“Stephen, your son is so busy getting straight A’s that he doesn’t notice when when the chicks rape him with their eyes,” Eric answers for him with a chuckle.  Stephen looks scandalized. “It’s pretty gay of him, but inside all that stupid dorkiness is a man. Of course there is! He’s a Stotch, right brah! _Leopold_ motherfuckin’ Stotch!”

Butters pinches himself just to see if he’s dreaming, because he’s never heard Eric say his real name before.  The tone had been cheery, but…

There was just something _off_ that Butters just couldn’t pinpoint, but he just _knew_ it had something to do with what was making Eric all weird all week now.

“And I promise you that by the time I’m through with him, Leopold will be South Park High’s hottest bitch to the dance!” Eric finishes with a relish.

This time, Butters bangs his head on the table just to try to wake himself up.  It doesn’t work, and he dazedly thinks that the bruise that’s bound to develop on his forehead surely won’t repel any of secret admirers since he doesn’t have any in the first place. 

“Ow…” he moans.

“Come on, Butters,” Eric says.  “We have a lot of work to do.”

Without letting the shell-shocked Stephen and Linda get another word in, Eric grabs one last piece of bacon off of his plate and leads Butters out of the house, his arm still wrapped firmly around the blond’s shoulders.

Butters is still in his goddamn pajamas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was surprisingly difficult to write Butters's parents without making them seem one-dimensional. They are perhaps some of the most universally hated characters I've encountered in the SP fandom so far (for good reason). Still, I wanted to avoid depicting them as Pure Evil; Butters's inherent goodness had to come from SOMEWHERE, I think. I would call Stephen and Linda as people with crippling insecurities, unfit to have children but still capable of love. 
> 
> Anywho, I hope y'all are fine with my portrayal of Butters. I needed to have gone through the appropriate changes since he's a Big Boy now, while still staying true to the naive, innocent kid we fell in love with. I probably made a train wreck out of the endeavor. 
> 
> Please review—I'm not easily offended. I watch South Park, after all! ;)


	4. The Inspector's Confrontations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter took me a bit longer than planned!
> 
> I originally intended this story to be about five chapters, but after struggling with this chapter, I've decided that I need to make it about eight to avoid a rushed conclusion. I'm hoping to pump out the remaining chaps as quickly as I can. 
> 
> Meanwhile, enjoy this as-of-yet incomplete story up to its halfway point!
> 
> P.S. I'd like to take a moment to thank EVERYONE who's left comments or kudos! You've all been more than kind and so supportive, and you've made me unfathomably happy. Still, don't hesitate to give me your shit; I'm not easily offended, I watch South Park after all!

Cartman had gone to Butters’s house that morning driven with purpose, but as he leaves the Stotch home with their only son in tow, his mind is filled with white noise. With his arm still wrapped in a near-stranglehold around Butters’s slight frame, Cartman is physically closer to the blond than he’s allowed since the bathroom incident. It’s not the first time Cartman’s slung his arm around the blond’s shoulders...they _are_ bros, after all.  Or so Cartman likes to insist whenever he wants to canoodle Butters into doing something for him.  But it doesn’t feel so casual today. Every little movement the smaller boy makes sends electrifying vibrations through Cartman’s body. Butters’s body rises and falls with every breath—the blond always likes to breathe through his mouth when the mornings are chilly like today, so that he can watch his breath condense in the air.  What a fucking child.

A child who has unwittingly succeeded at making Cartman cum over and over again.

Cartman wants to remove his arm from around Butters, but for some reason he feels like his flesh has been replaced with bricks.  Like there is lead in his bloodstream, freezing his limb in place. Like his sleeve has been stapled to the back of Butters’s shirt.  He scowls and resorts to dragging Butters along faster. 

“I texted you and said I was coming over. Couldn’t be bothered to check your fucking messages, Sleeping Beauty?” Cartman asks irritably.

“Oh geez, Eric, couldn’t you be bothered to have a proper conversation with me sometime last week so I’d know what the freakin’ heck’s goin’ on?” Butters snips back without hesitation.  “How was I supposed to know you were gonna wake up this early on a Saturday?”

“Jesus Christ, stop shitting on my balls.  Like, you my wife or somethin’?” Cartman hisses in annoyance, only to recoil at his own choice of words.  This again. Why does he keep making the same fucking mistake? Before Butters has the chance to respond, Cartman quickly adds, “If you were so desperate for someone to lick your needy little vagina, you should’ve gone to Mr. Disease-Filled Kenneth McCormick.”

Butters releases a nervous chuckle, and says, “Jesus, Eric, what’ve you and Kenny been up to this week,” and for a moment Eric almost freezes.   _Butters knows.  He knows what went down in my room last night and_ —

But then he realizes that Butters is speaking generally, and doesn’t mean it in _that_ way, and why the fuck should Cartman care if Butters knows that he and Kenny engaged in a totally manly, coming-of-age masturbation ritual anyway?  

Butters starts rubbing his fists against each other.  “Oh sweet Jesus, is that what we’re doin’ right now? We gonna k-k-kill Kenny or somethin’?”

Cartman grits his teeth and rolls his eyes so hard that he’s sure he got a glimpse of the insides of his eye sockets.  “No, I did not get up this early on a Saturday fucking morning to do _shit_ to the poor asshole.  Bastard’s pretty good at doing that to himself when he shoves pointy dildos up his dirty asshole to get himself off, probably.” 

“Then what’s goin’ on, Eric?” Butters asks, and Cartman glances at the kid’s fidgeting only to realize that Butters is pulling his bad habit again and knocking his knuckles completely raw.

“Ay, stop that, you little masochist!  I thought I told you to cut that shit out!”  Somehow, Cartman is finally able to unravel his arm around Butters’s shoulders, opting instead to grab both of Butters’s wrists in an unyielding grip to prevent the idiot from hurting himself further. 

“Oh gosh, it’s a bad habit.  Sorry,” Butters responds sheepishly.  Cartman observes that Butters has already managed to pick off all the old scabs littering his fingers and that the little abrasions are tearing open again.

“I’m seriously gonna kick your ass if you end up bleeding all over my clothes, bitch.”

“Clothes…?” Butters repeats.  And then he gasps. “Oh hamburgers, clothes, I—Eric—I-I-I ain’t—I’m not _decent_!”

“Decent? What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well you see, my hair a-a-and my teeth ain’t at all brushed—and I ain’t wearin’ nothin’ but my jammies—and I ain’t wearin’ proper shoes, just these b-bunny house slippers—“

Cartman looks down and sees that indeed, Butters’s feet are clad in disgustingly pink rabbit slippers, complete with the googly eyes and little fake ears. “Dude, you should be more worried about the fact that I’m about to puke all over those faggy little eyesores.”

But Butters’s only response is to start giggling rather maniacally, which Cartman recognizes as a sign that the blond is either extremely amused, extremely embarrassed, or about to have a mental breakdown.  None of the options are good. “You know somethin’, Eric? I ain’t even wearin’ any underwear. My dad would ground me for sure if he knew I go to bed every darn night commando—but screw ‘im! It’s not like he can check! And it’s sure an awful lot easier to clean up after you wake up from a nice, er—c-creamy dream, uh, if you know what I am saying. Ahahaha...oh sweet Jesus, son of the Virginia—Vuh-Virgin Mary, it sure does feel naughty knowin’ that the only thing keepin’ you from seein’ my wiener is this—this old threadbare pair of pajama bottoms. Why, I can feel the mornin’ breeze—right through the cloth and it—sure is cold—“

Butters goes on rambling about the unique sensations of going commando.  The kid always _did_ have a weird thing for talking candidly about wieners, whether they be his own or the floppy dicks on Game of Thrones.   It never used to do much more than exasperate or amuse Cartman, because Butters’s cock talk comes from a place of childish curiosity rather than perversion, and was completely harmless compared to spiel from the likes of Kenny, Jimmy, or even Craig.  But today, listening to Butters jabber in that innocent, oblivious voice of his seems doubly filthy compared to anything the damn slutty McCormick could ever come up with. _God fucking dammit, stupid Butters talks about dicks like they’re actual sentient beings with like, emotions and shit.  His own penis is probably whiny like a freaky girl, always crying just like he is._

Before Cartman can shove his own thoughts out of his mind, he sees Cupid Cartman hovering right above Butters’s bright blond head.  “ _Ooh, but Butts is so good with people, isn’t he?  That’s probably why he’s extra good at treatin’ Mr. Wiener right._ ” 

Cartman blinks in shock for a moment; in all the years of Cupid Cartman’s busy little existence, the cherub has never yet tried to involve Butters in any of its matchmaking schemes.  Cartman assumed that it was because Cupid Him recognized Butters as an annoying, undesirable little turd—so why is the little angel hovering above the blond’s head, _now_ of all times?

“Yo, Cupid Me, you’re crashing the wrong party,” Cartman whispers nervously.  “This is _Butters_ we’re talking about.  There’s no one here who would bone him.”

“Didja say somethin’, Eric?” Butters questions obliviously.

“ _Teeheehee Eric, of course there is!_  You!” Cupid Cartman giggles, despite the expression of pure horror painting Cartman’s face.  Then the cherub flutters down next to Butters’s crotch and points at it. “ _Didn’t Butts say Mr. Wiener was cold?  You could warm him up, Eric! Teehee!_ ”

As much as Cartman wants to strangle the shit out of his Cupid self, the cherub is cleverly hovering right between Butters’s legs.  Cartman can’t exactly make a grab for the demented angel without the risk of grabbing _something else_ instead.

So instead, he levels his most deadly, most threatening glare at Cupid Cartman, hoping that the cherub will get the message and poof out of existence or however the fuck it makes its dramatic exit.

“Uh...Eric?” Butters’s tentative voice questions cautiously.  “Y-your face is all red. And why...why’re you starin’ at my...groin...like that?”

Cartman’s head snaps back up to Butters’s face.  “I wasn’t looking at your goddamn boy pussy, you fuckin’ fag!” he denies vehemently.

But Butters is no longer listening to Cartman.  He’s become distracted by something down the other end of the street.  Cartman jumps in surprise when Butters hollers, “Hey fellas!” Cartman’s head whips around to see just who the early morning trespassers are.

And _ooh-la-_ fucking _-laaaaa_ , it’s South Park’s ugliest homos Stan and Kyle, out for a Saturday morning stroll or something equally gay, probably. They’re holding hands.

And that’s when Cartman realizes that he’s still holding Butters’s wrists, crushing them in a death grip. 

“What—Cartman—Butters—“ Stan stammers as he takes in the scene.

“THIS ISN’T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!” Cartman yells without thinking.

But Kyle doesn’t believe him. “WHAT DID WE FUCKING TELL YOU, FATASS!  Butters—BUTTERS get AWAY from that obese pile of crap!”

“Oh boy, it looks like Kyle wants to kill you real bad this time, Eric,” Butters comments, sounding far calmer than the situation warrants.  “What’d you do?”

“I didn’t do shit!” Cartman defends.  “Why are you assholes always pointing fingers at me, huh?”

“Oh, we’ll tell you what he did, Butters,” Kyle growls as he marches up to the blond and brunet duo, Stan not far behind.  “He tried to molest us, he probably DID molest Kenny, and he told us about how he already tried to molest y—“

“LIES! He’s a dirty, no-good lyin’ JEW, Butters, everything he says is a _lie_!” Cartman cries, and without sparing another moment, he starts running away from Kyle and his black-haired bitch, dragging Butters along by the wrist  he still hasn't yet relinquished.  His only thought is that he must get Butters away from Stan and Kyle before the terrible couple passes along some serious misinformation to the blond about what happened yesterday night.

Fortunately, with years of experience under his belt from escaping the various fixes that Cartman had gotten him into, Butters’s reaction time has become quite akin to lightning.  He immediately starts running alongside Cartman without question, and still has enough presence of mind to toss a sheepish smile over his shoulder at Stan and Kyle, who are taking pursuit.  “It’s awful rude of me not to stop an’ say a proper good morning, so I’ll offer my apologies, fellas, but it looks—it looks like Eric and I have gotta mosey outta here real quick!”

“Stop!  Don’t go with him, Butters!” Stan pleads pathetically.

With a sinking heart, Cartman realizes that he can’t possibly outrun Stan and Kyle, who are both stupid jocks in the school football and basketball teams respectively.  Cartman can already feel his heart thudding uncomfortably hard against his ribcage, and his heavy feet are growing sluggish... _Damn South Park’s fucking high elevation!_

“He’s a fucking pedophile, Butters!” Kyle screams from _way too close_ behind them. 

“You’re a...fucking...liar, _Jew_!” Cartman pants.

“Don’t let Cartman make you do anything you don’t wanna do, Butters!” Stan exclaims.  “He’s sick in the head, Butters, sick in the _fucking head_!  It’s not right!”

“Um...Eric?  They’re gaining on us,” Butters says quietly, and to Cartman’s eternal annoyance, the blond doesn’t sound winded at all. 

“YEAH?  Well stop bitching about it...and hurry...the fuck up...you fucking pansy!”

Butters doesn’t respond, instead tossing a worried look over his shoulder at Stan and Kyle.  For one sweet moment, Cartman assumes that Butters will indeed cease his bitching and focus on the running, but then Butters makes a sudden veer to the left and starts positively _sprinting_.  Now, it’s _Butters_ who’s dragging _Cartman_ , and it’s honestly a miracle that the smaller boy has strength enough to haul Cartman’s bulky weight along with him. 

“Butters—wait—too fast—can’t breathe—” Cartman wheezes, too busy tripping over his feet to worry about Stan and Kyle anymore. 

“I’m real sorry Eric, but this is the only way to shake ‘em off our tails!” Butters shouts.  “Sorry Stan, sorry Kyle!”

And then Butters, with Cartman in tow, runs right into a street full of oncoming traffic. 

“AHHHHH!  Holy shit _holy shit_ I’m gonna _die_!” Cartman yells, his fright making him forget about his exhaustion.  For once, Stan and Kyle seem to be in agreement with Cartman as they skid to a stop on the sidewalk, yelping as a truck comes careening towards Butters and Cartman, the driver hollering and honking in panic all the while, and Cartman feels his sweaty fingers slipping from their grasp around Butters’ wrist—

But then Butters grabs Cartman’s hand, lacing their fingers for good measure, and even though both of them are sweaty and slippery, Butters’s warm clutch is somehow more secure than steel.  Butters pulls Cartman out of the way of the incoming truck. Cartman closes his eyes, lest he throw up at the sight of the cars rushing towards them, and allows Butters to lead him swerve after swerve, left and right around the speeding, honking vehicles. 

Then, all too abruptly, Butters stops, having safely arrived at the sidewalk on the other side of the road. Cartman lands in a heap on the pavement next to him.

“Hell yeah, suckers!” Butters yells gleefully over the traffic at a gaping Stan and Kyle.  “You couldn’t catch us! I bet—I bet you didn’t expect that, didja?”

“Holy...shitballs...Butters,” Cartman moans, impressed that Butters still has the energy to gloat after almost getting flattened by a truck.

“Oh my god, you—you almost got _killed_!” Stan shouts from across the road, not quite yet recovered from shock. 

“Don’t be silly, fellas, I wouldn’t let Eric die!” Butters answers.  Cartman is struck with how accurate this statement is. He can guarantee that everyone else he knows—aside from his mom, of course—would’ve had no problem abandoning him in the middle of the busy street.  But from the moment Butters intertwined their fingers together, Cartman somehow _knew_ that he would make it across the street alive.

It doesn’t stop him from wanting to vomit from motion sickness, though.

“This isn’t a fucking _game_ , Butters!” Kyle interjects.

“Aw shucks, really?  It seemed an awful lot like a fun game of tag to me, what with the way you were chasin’ us an’ all,” Butters responds, and Cartman can’t tell if Butters is being sarcastic or not. 

The blond leans downs and looks at the panting, sweaty heap on the ground that is Cartman.  Butters pats Cartman’s head. “Aw, Eric, I know you’re real tired an’ all, but you gotta get up if you don’t want ‘em to catch us,” Butters says.  “The traffic light’s gonna turn red anytime now and when all the cars put their brakes on, nothin’s gonna stop Stan and Kyle from marchin’ right on over across the street.”  Butters looks around. “C’mon. I know where we can hide for a little bit. And _talk_.”

Though he's not looking forward to the talking, Cartman realizes that Butters is right and struggles to stand up.  Butters attempts to help him up, but Cartman slaps the blond's hands away.  “Don’t fucking touch me,” Cartman groans, “you’re not my—”

“—Wife, I know, got that,” Butters finishes, smiling as he rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t finish my fucking sentences!  T-that’s not what I was gonna say!” Cartman protests. 

As soon as Cartman’s back on his feet, Butters takes the brunet’s hand and starts dragging him away at a brisk pace.  Cartman would like nothing more than to lie down, but at least this is manageable compared to the utterly psychotic sprint across the street.

“Bye Stan!  Bye Kyle!” Butters yells to the gobsmacked duo.  “Stanley, I’ll see you on Monday when we meet for our music project!”

“You idiot!  We were trying to save you from getting raped!” is Stan’s response. 

“Don’t forget that you _can_ say _no_!” Kyle follows.  “Cartman is a fucking pedophile!”

* * *

Cartman and Butters don’t say anything to each other for a while.  Cartman is mostly still just trying to catch his breath, but he can’t help but wonder just what is going through Butters’s head at the moment. 

The blond leads them into South Park’s Chinatown.  It’s grown since its turbulent “Little Tokyo” beginnings, but it’s still really just one moderately-sized shopping complex of stores and restaurants all owned by Tuong Lu Kim.

“Uh, I don’t see Stan or Kyle anymore, Butters,” Cartman finally says to break the ice.  “I think we lost ‘em. Can you let go of my fuckin’ hand now?”

“Mhmm,” Butters mumbles, but he doesn’t relinquish his hold on Cartman’s hand. 

 _Aw shit, now he’s in one of his stubborn, bitchy moods_ , Cartman thinks.  “What, are you on your period or something?  Is that what these mood swings are all about?  Dude. Butters. Answer me, goddammit!”

“I don’t have periods, Eric.  I ain’t a girl.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Cartman scoffs.  When this fails to get a reaction out of Butters, Cartman sighs and decides to change his tactics to flattery.  “You know, what you did back there was pretty badass. For a sissy boy like you, anyway. Where’d you learn to run like that, huh? You practice running across freeways or somethin’ when you’re not busy bossin’ me around?  Huh? Is that what it is? Butters? Huh?”

Butters is still trying really hard to ignore Cartman, but he can’t help but crack a small smile and admit, “No, it was just...adrenaline I guess, an’ I...an’ I really wanted to see those looks on Kyle’s and Stan’s faces when we beat ‘em…”

“Hahaha, _right_? I mean, did you _see_ Kyle’s face?  He looked like he crapped his panties! Don’t ever scare me like that again, you piece of shit, but I gotta say...that was pretty sweet.  And in your—“ Cartman looks down—“gay bunny slippers no less! I mean, I’m still gonna vomit all over them but, like, with respect, brah.”

Cartman was hoping Butters would loosen up with the joke, but Butters looks at his feet with a frown and says, “Aww heck, I got ‘em all torn up an’—dirty!  I—liked these!” He scowls at Cartman.

“Hey, whatchu lookin’ at _me_ for?  It’s not _my_ fault you decided to skedaddle like a goddamn lunatic—“

“If you’d given me the chance to change my shoes back home—“

They continue bickering until they arrive at City Wok, where Mr. Kim is sitting at the counter, waiting to receive customers.  The chink asshole has a generic slanty smile on his face, but his eyes widen slightly when he sees Butters.

“Herro, Inspector,” the Asian man greets.  “What can I do for you today?”

“Hello Mr. Kim!  Just wonderin’ if my friend an’ I can have a little private conversation,” Butters responds smoothly. 

As Cartman observes their interaction, he decides that he will never get used to the strange relationship between Butters and the owner of City Wok.  Years ago, when Butters had informed him that Mr. Kim and “Inspector Butters” had come to some type of understanding, Cartman had guffawed at the notion of any sane adult playing stupid roleplaying games with South Park’s resident dumb blond kid.  He would still be guffawing today if he hadn’t witnessed multiple times, with his own eyes, the greedy Mr. Kim catering to Butters’s most random whims.

“Oh, of course, of course, Inspector. You can use basement!” Mr. Kim says sycophantically.  “You rike pratter of spring rorrs too?”

“Uh, that would be fabulous, Mr. Kim!” Butters says.  “Some extra, for my friend here, too.”

“Right away, sir, right away,” Mr. Kim nods, leading them through the back of the restaurant and down a flight of steps to the basement, mumbling all the while. 

Butters and Cartman sit across from each other on the floor of City Wok’s dingy basement as Mr. Kim places a fresh, steaming platter of crispy spring rolls between them. 

“I reave you gentremen arone, then,” the proprietor says, shuffling away.

“Thanks, Mr. Kim.  Oh and uh, if two boys named Stan an’ Kyle come here lookin’ for Butters and Cartman, tell ‘em you ain’t seen us all morning.”

“Wow, I gotta admit you really thought this through, Butters,” Cartman says appreciatively as Mr. Kim nods and returns upstairs.  He smacks his lips as he appraises the spring rolls in front of him. He reaches out to take one, his fingers only centimeters away from the Asian delight when Butters’s hand snaps out and stops him.  “What the hell, Butters!” the brunet whines.

“I’m sorry, Eric, but you don’t get to eat until you answer some questions.”

“Oh wow.  Look at that, the five-year-old pussy boy actually believes he’s an _actual_ inspector.”

“This isn’t a game, Eric!” Butters insists.

“ _This isn’t a game, Eric_!” Cartman imitates in a falsetto.  “ _Aw shucks, really?  It seemed like an awful lot of fun for me to gang up on poor, hungry Eric!_ ”

“H-hey, I don’t sound like that!”

“ _H-hey, I don’t sound like that!_ ”

“Stop copying me!”

“ _Stop copying meeeee_!” Cartman parrots. He cackles at Butters’s irritated expression.  “You know, Butters, it’s not cool to use food to blackmail a guy when you’re interrogating him.  That’s like, totally rigged. Not cool, man.” Cartman makes another attempt to grab a spring roll, but his attempts are once again thwarted by the blond.  “Dude, Butters. Seriously. The fuckin’ food is getting cold.”

“Did you or did you not molest Stan and Kyle?” Butters asks seriously.

It takes a moment for Cartman to digest the question.  Then his appetite is suddenly replaced with rage.  “What the fuck, dude?” he yells. “I fuckin’ told you those were fuckin’ lies!  Kyle is a dirty Jew, Butters! That’s what he does for a motherfucking living! Make up dirty, no good lies about innocent, white Christian boys like me!”

“I don’t know what to believe, Eric!” Butters cries, genuinely upset.  “You’ve been actin’ weird all week, an’ this is the first I heard about anything ‘cause you’ve been all tight—tight-lipped!”

“I don’t have to answer to you!”

“Aw, c’mon Eric. Just answer me, _please_. You don’t gotta say nothin’ else, just yes or no.”

“Go fuck yourself!”

Butters takes a deep breath.  Then he tries again.  “Did you or did you not molest—”

“Fucking HELL, shut up Butters!” Cartman shouts, standing up.  He doesn’t get why he’s getting so upset with this conversation, but he just is.  He’s tempted to flip the entire platter of spring rolls into Butters’s face, but he can’t quite stomach doing such a terrible thing to a perfectly good pile of food.  “Go ask your best buds Stan and Kyle if you’re so fucking curious! You seem real intent about pursuing all the bullcrap they have to say about me, anyway!”

“But I don’t wanna hear it from them!” Butters protests loudly.  Cartman briefly wonders whether Mr. Kim can hear their argument from upstairs.  “I just wanna hear it from you, Eric. That’s all I’m askin’. We’re friends, aren’t we?  Like, I know I let you get away with a lot of things, but doin’ s-stuff to our friends and to k-k-kids...I have to draw the line there!”

Cartman feels his anger leave him at the look of vulnerability on Butters’s face.  He’s reminded that Butters was molested as a young child, by his uncle no less...something to which Cartman can relate all too well (though he’ll never admit it) because of the unhealthy number of pervs and sluts in the Cartman bloodline. 

“No, I did not molest Stan and Kyle,” Cartman sighs, sitting back down.  “ _Or_ Kenny,” he feels the need to add.  “And I’m not a fuckin’ pedophile. I mean, come on, Butters.  Look at me.” He takes off his hat and points at himself. “Look at this sweet, innocent, handsome face.  Does this look like the face of a child molester to you?”

And Butters scrutinizes Cartman’s face deeply, and Cartman has to fight his sudden inclination to blush.  Butters’s one blue and one blind eye stare at Cartman’s amber ones for a few seconds, before the blond boy finally heaves a sigh, the tension draining out of his body along with it.  “I s’pose not,” he mumbles. “B-but why were Stan and Kyle saying shit like that, then?”

“It was just a stupid misunderstanding, Butters,” Cartman says.  Butters has finally let go of Cartman’s hand, and the brunet happily stuffs a spring roll into his mouth.  “You know the way I joke around. Stan and Kyle are just too dumb and sensitive to understand my sophisticated sense of humor.”

For a moment, this seems to satisfy Butters.  While Cartman stuffs his third and fourth spring rolls into his mouth, Butters takes his first and starts nibbling it.  But then he suddenly looks up again.  “You know who else can’t understand your sense of humor, Eric?” he says quietly.  “My mom and dad.”

“Oh,” Cartman replies noncommittally.  “What about those freaks?”

“Why’d you tell ‘em that I was all p-popular at school, Eric?” Butters asks nervously.   

“Oh, I just wanted to mess with ‘em,” Cartman shrugs.

“B-but—you were gettin’ on so well with ‘em earlier on,” Butters mutters, sounding defeated.  “I thought you guys actually had some dadgum rapport…”

Cartman swallows his fifth spring roll and pauses.  It’s true. Why the hell had he humored Stephen and Linda all morning?  As a kid, Cartman had taken great amusement in the way the couple bullied their only son, but the abusive behavior had grown old over time.  They too often grounded the kid when Cartman needed Butters’s help for one of his schemes.  It was even worse taking into consideration that Stephen and Linda treated Butters the way they did and _still_ thought they were the greatest parents west of the Mississippi.  It was sometime during middle school that Cartman had finally labelled them “horrible and incorrigible”, and decided it was no longer fun to mess with Butters’s family.

And yet Cartman had willingly sat through an entire breakfast with them, in a setting entirely too domestic for his tastes.  He can’t explain it himself, because it certainly had nothing to do with the happy little smile Butters had tried to hide when he saw Cartman getting along swimmingly with Stephen and Linda.

“You were the one who fucking begged me to stay.  I just tolerated them. They gave me food,” Cartman finally replies.  “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t totally fun to fuck with them. I mean, who wouldn’t?  Everyone hates them.”

It’s true.  South Park’s gossip mill isn’t too quiet about its dislike for the Stotches when the members of said family aren’t present.  The women think that Linda is a boring, submissive housewife, while Stephen has the tendency to make the other men uncomfortable.  Together, the couple excels in fake-politeness and acting superior to everyone else. Even the ever-oblivious Randy hangs out with Stephen considerably less than he used to, although part of that may be due to Stan’s constant nagging. 

But Butters, who is just as separated from the gossip mill as his parents, gapes in disbelief.  “Everyone hates Mom and Dad?”

“Well, duh.”

“But why?” Butters presses, still shocked. 

 _Because they’re stuck-up child abusers?_ Cartman doesn’t say that out loud, though, because for some deranged reason, Butters always defends his parents to the ends of the fucking Earth, even if he sometimes sounds like he has trouble believing his own arguments when he does so.  Cartman has no interest in getting into that fight with Butters right now.  He opts for, “Because they’re old-fashioned.”

“They’re...old-fashioned?”  Butters starts flicking his fingers against each other.  “Oh no, Mom’s gonna be mighty upset when she finds out her friends don’t actually like her.  And Dad’s...Dad’ll be mad for sure...oh hamburgers, Eric, he’s gonna think nobody likes ‘im because his s-stupid s-s-son ain’t popular in school a-and c-can’t even g-g-get a g-girlfriend—”

“Oh, shut your fuckin’ piehole, crybaby, it’s nothing to do with you,” Cartman snaps.  “And what did I fucking say about doing that to your fucking hands?”

“Oh, I—I—sorry,” Butters says feebly, hastily ripping his hands apart.

Cartman puts down his spring roll, wipes his greasy fingers on his pants, and sighs.  Looking Butters straight in the eye, Cartman says, “Look. I may have been fucking with your parents, but I meant what I said.”

“M-meant what you said about wuh-wuh-what?” Butters asks, his eyes darting back and forth between the wall, his hands, and Cartman’s eyes.  Cartman is peeved that all of the confidence that Butters had been displaying earlier has leached away.  It’s _just_ like Butters to show some fucking bravery like he might not be such a pathetic pussy after all, and then, mere moments later, reinforce the idea that he is in fact pathetic and useless, what with his stupid anxiety and stuttering and all.    

“About getting you a girl for the stupid dance,” Cartman says.

“What!” Butters yelps, his eyes wide and surprised.  “B-but _who_?”

“Butters, _Butters_ , you can’t think like that, bro,” Cartman says, shaking his head wisely.  “Chicks hate it when dudes pine after them. You see Wendy and Stan? Stan was a desperate little bitch for her, so she left him, and that’s why Stan’s a flaming homo now.  You don’t want to end up like Stan, do you?”

Butters considers this.  “Well, no, I guess not. I don’t wanna be with Kyle, after all. I don’t like Kyle like that.”

That wasn’t what Cartman meant, but Butters seems to get the gist of it, so he lets it go.  “No, I suppose nobody deserves to be with stupid Kyle, not even a pathetic sad sack like Stan Marsh,” Cartman nods.  “Let’s all pray for Stanley’s soul.”

“Amen?” Butters says, sounding unsure.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, as I was sayin’, you gotta let the chicks come to you naturally, Butters.  Then you can take your pick. My advice would be to go for the blondes.”

“But how do I do that?  I’m B-butters Stotch. The only way I ever get bitches to come to me is if there’s money in it for them, but uh...I don’t really wanna pay a bitch just to get ‘er to dance with me, y’know?”

“No.  Please don’t resort to prostitutes again, Butters,” Cartman says, shivering slightly as he recalls Butters’s monstrous pimp phase.  “I’m not talkin’ about paying anybody. I mean, come on. You might be the biggest nerd on this side of the Mississippi, but you’re white and you’re _blond,_ bitch.  You just have to reinvent yourself and the bitches will come crawling.”  Cartman pauses. “Then you’ll have yourself a stupid little girlfriend and your bitch dad won’t ground you for being a flaming fag.”  

“Wuh-well then, how do I reinvent myself?”

“Well first of all, you totally need, like, new clothes,” Cartman says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—which it is, for the record.  Butters dresses like he’s intentionally trying to get beat up. The only reason he _doesn’t_ get beat up is because of his constant proximity with Cartman.  No one wants to mess with Cartman.

Butters actually has the gall to look surprised.  “What’s wrong with the ones I have?” he asks, reaching to pluck at his sleeves, only to realize that he’s still in his nightclothes.  “Uh, I ain’t talkin’ about my jammies, of course...I don’t normally let no bitches see me in _these_ rockers.”

At the risk of looking far too much like Stan, Cartman pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Butters, you wear an oversized turquoise sweater.”

“And you wear a red one!”

“Not the fucking point.   _Turquoise_ , Butters, really?”

“Well, it’s my favorite color…”

“You can’t be so selfish about your colors if you want pussy,” Cartman says, waving off Butters’s concern.  “You also can’t tuck your fucking shirt in anymore. Seriously, Butters, you’re lucky you have perfect vision in your right eye.  If you wore glasses on top of—” Cartman gestures up and down Butters’s body—”all _this_ , you’d be in the Guinness World Records for most punchable kid under 18.”

“My lack of world record doesn’t stop you from givin’ me black eyes from time to time,” Butters mumbles in dissatisfaction.

“And that’s another thing chicks don’t dig.  Your fucking passive-aggressive insolence,” Cartman snaps, rolling his eyes.  “I’m serious about the clothes, Butters.  Your old wardrobe has got to go.”

“But how’m I supposed to do that, Eric?  My mom’s the one who buys all my clothes…”

Cartman supposes it’s to be expected that Linda Stotch would buy her son a wardrobe full of nothing but high-collared, long-sleeved garb—the type that hides as much skin as possible.  The woman herself _does_ dress like she’s about to go the church confession box.  Fitting, he supposes. She probably has a fuckton _to_ confess, anyway—like attempting to murder her only child.  “Why the hell do you think I picked you up this early on a Saturday morning?  I’ll help you; I’m a fucking fashion queen, bitch. You could do with a haircut, too.  That fucking mop you have might as well have ‘queer’ painted all over it. We’re going to the mall and redesigning Butters Stotch as South Park knows him.”

Butters’s eyes light up for a moment, before they mist over with emotion.  “R-really, Eric? You’re doin’ all that, for me?”

 _I’m not doing it for_ you, Cartman thinks, and as he looks at Butters’s earnestly grateful face, Cartman is suddenly thrown back to fourth grade, when a ten-year-old Butters had looked up at him from the depths of a bomb shelter with two bright, healthy, unblinded blue eyes and the exact same expression.  Cartman hastily blinks back the sudden wave of nostalgia. “Yeah, Butters. Of course I am. We’re pals.”

“Oh geez, Eric!” Butters exclaims, bouncing up and down.  He gets on his hands and knees and crawls around the spring roll platter towards Cartman and begins to give the brunet a hug.  After years of attempting to push away Butters’s excessive touches and handsy-ness, Cartman has learned to accept Butters’s embraces as they come.  But this time, he _can’t_.  Cartman puts up his hand and firmly pushes Butters away.

“That’s another thing, Butters,” Cartman says, looking away from the faltering expression on the blond’s face.  “If you wanna nail a chick, then after today, you can’t...you can’t hang out with me anymore."

There’s a long stretch of silence, and even though he desperately wants to know what Butters is thinking, Cartman simply can’t summon up the gumption to look at Butters’s face.

Butters finally breaks the silence with a simple, “Why?”  It’s short and chilling, and Cartman can't decipher Butters’s tone at all.

“Because chicks are intimidated by my awesomeness,” Cartman says, injecting his voice with pomp that he doesn’t feel.  He doesn’t understand why his words are falling flat to his own ears right now. “They’d never approach you if you hung around me.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoidin’ me?” Butters asks softly. 

 _No_ , Cartman silently responds.   _I’ve been avoiding you because your stupid lily-white childish masturbation has polluted my mind and I need you_ out.  Out loud, he says, “Yeah.”

“What...what if I don’t want to?”

“What if you don’t want to what?” Cartman asks tiredly, and he finally meets Butters’s eyes again.

Butters’s arms are hanging limply by his sides, no longer trying to encircle Cartman in a hug.  For once, the blond boy isn’t fidgeting, or jiggling his leg, or making any extraneous movements of anxiety.  He just looks calm and serious. “I mean, I’m real grateful for what you’ve bein’ tryin’ to do for me, Eric, but...what if I don’t wanna stop hangin’ out with you?  Because I _don’t_...wanna stop hangin’ out with you, Eric.”

Cartman knows that there are dozens of disdainful comments he could make in response to that, but for some reason, his brain fogs up and he’s unable to think of a single one.  “I don’t wanna stop hangin’ with you either, dude,” he says, scowling at himself for saying something so _nice_. “But it you want pussy then you’re gonna have to make sacrifices."

"I dunno, Eric," Butters continues stubbornly.  "Stan an' Kyle told me not to let you make me do anything I don't want...and, I dunno, it seems like real good advice just about now."

Cartman huffs in disbelief. "Are you seriously gonna hang off every fucking word those two dipshits say?  Look, Butters.  Do you want a girl, or do you want to get grounded by your anal-retentive dad for being an ugly, half-blind, disfigured fuck who can’t get a date?”

It's a low blow, and Cartman knows it, but it seems to work. Still, even as Butters finally gives in with a sad nod, Cartman can’t help but feel like _he’s_ the one making the sacrifice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a real dose of Butters/Cartman interaction! It's so much fun making up dialogue for these two. I hope managed to stay in-character, though? As a writer, I find that it's hardest to stay in-character when writing dialogue. 
> 
> I hope Mr. Kim's accent is interrigibre LOL (ROR?). I'm Chinese myself and I find his overly-stereotypical behavior HYSTERICAL. I guess it's because HE AIN'T ACTUALLY CHINESE?! Shhhhhhhhhhhhh don't tell ;)
> 
> Also, idk why I just love me some Cartman with serious blond-envy :P


	5. Open Your Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a honeymoon period of 3-7 days after you've posted an update for your fic that you must post another update. Once the 7 days have gone by, your new chapter will end up at the bottom of your Documents folder and you'll write at the average speed of 0.4 words per day. 
> 
> At least, that's how it is for me. SORRY GUYS! Three days turned into almost three fucking months! In my defense, my summer got suddenly and unexpectedly extremely busy, and then school started. Still, I know the pain of waiting for a new chapter—so for those of you who think this junk story is actually worth waiting for, I OWE YOU ONE!
> 
> On the plus side, this is a longer chapter to satisfy your cravings. On the down side, this chapter fuckin' sucks. 
> 
> Now we'll see whether the next chapter takes a few days or a few months. Let's all pray for the former!!!!!

“Why’re you breaking my fucking balls, Butters? Stop breaking my balls, Butters.”

In plain algebraic terms that would surely make Mr. Stedman proud, this is the _nth_ maddeningly frustrating conversation Cartman has had with Butters today.  Cartman supposes he shouldn’t be surprised anymore; Butters is the most maddening, most frustrating, most infuriating fucking _asshole_ that Cartman knows, so any conversation with the blond airhead is, like, 200% guaranteed to give him a headache.  

The worst part is that no one can relate to Cartman’s pains.  Stan and Kyle tolerate Butters just fine, and don’t seem to find him worse than simply a little irritating.  Kenny, on the other hand, finds his fellow blond an excellent pal and an enthralling conversationalist—something that continuously baffles Cartman because: one, Kenny and Butters have very little in common to begin with, and two, Butters _enthralling_?  Give him a fucking break. 

No, no one truly understands what it’s like to truly butt heads with Butters Stotch.  They see South Park’s youngest Stotch as a blameless victim to Cartman’s various exploitations.  And while Cartman has no issue admitting that he’s screwed Butters over countless times for no other reason than because it was hilarious, doing so is _not_ always the walk in the park so many people seem to believe it to be.  Yes, it’s easy to drag Butters along for the most psychotic rides—that is, until the blond decides to dig his heels into the ground and stop moving.  For every cent of gullibility that Butters possesses, he’s got a fortune’s worth of stubbornness that surfaces and slaps Cartman in the face at the most unpredictable and inopportune moments.  It’s truly bizarre—Cartman wouldn’t be surprised if Butters agreed to drive a bus off a bridge without batting an eye, but flat-out refused to switch the salt and pepper shakers at Bennigan’s as part of a petty prank.  In honesty, Butters isn’t as gullible anymore as he is completely skewed in his own set of principles and priorities. And Butters adheres to his misplaced values like the North Korean military.  

The first time Cartman experienced Butters’s merciless stubbornness in earnest was the blond’s epic refusal to let go of his hand when they’d snuck off to Super Phun Thyme together.  Of course, Cartman had been too preoccupied to think much of it at the time, and it was only after repeated instances thereafter—in which Butters’s unflappable refusal to comply or participate completely foiled Cartman’s plans—that the brunet realized that the Super Phun Thyme incident was just the beginning of one of his life’s most aggravating plagues.  

Cartman has privately dubbed these obstinate episodes as Butters’s “periods”—and just like the female menstrual cycle, there is no set formula for a manly man like Cartman to deal with them.  Sometimes, threats of vicious blackmail are what finally get Butters to budge; other times, Cartman has to literally sink onto his knees and beg like a needy bitch. Most times, it’s a lost cause, and there’s absolutely nothing that will change Butters’s mind once it’s set.  And always, _always_ , the effort of attempting to do so is akin to throwing one’s body against a fortress of steel.  Or trying to uproot a goddamn sequoia with one’s bare hands.  

Cartman had decided, years ago, that the only way to survive Butters’s random pissy moods was to treat them as exercises in mental patience.  He figured that with time, he would eventually learn how exactly to wear down a stubborn Butters.  Or that with practice, he’d learn to deal with Butters without getting so _fucking_ frustrated.  But no; even after years of experience, Cartman still feels like a unprepped virgin every time his blond albatross throws up that wall of resistance.   And Cartman _still_ allows himself to get riled up by it every time.  (Seriously, though. The Chinese ought to take a tip or two from Butters about wall construction, because if Cartman can’t get past Butters’s defense, neither can some pussy Mongolians.)  

In light of this week’s revelations, Cartman considers the possibility that Butters had cast his voodoo magic upon him years and years ago.  After all, despite his usefulness as a sidekick, Butters has caused him more strife than any other person he knows. Except Kyle, of course. But the status of “person” is a bit too generous for the dirty ginger Jew pig, anyway, so Kyle doesn’t really count.  In a cost-benefit analysis of the situation, being friends with Butters is a sad deficit.  

And yet, Cartman has never considered the alternative.  

“I beg your pardon, Eric, but this ain’t really about you, is it?” Butters responds, breaking the silence as well as Cartman’s troubling line of thought.

“The fuck do you mean, this isn’t about _me_ ?” Cartman huffs when he recalls where the conversation left off.  “It’s _my_ balls you’re breaking!”

“Well, you’re askin’ a lot from me, Mister,” Butters says.  “If your balls are breakin’, that’s a symptom of the situation you’re bringin’ upon both of us—and that’s on _you_ , not on me!”  And then Butters points an unabashed finger directly at Cartman’s crotch.  “I’m not responsible for keepin’ your little Erics happy, Eric.”

Oh, if only Butters knew that he had _indeed_ been responsible for the happiness of Cartman’s ‘ _little Erics_ ’, if the record production of sperm during the past week due to a certain lewd video and excessive masturbation was anything to go by.  Cartman’s face flushes and he slaps Butters’s hand away from the vicinity of his groin.   “Stop that, we’re in public, asshole!” the brunet hisses, before cringing at the unintended implications of his words.  Because it’s not like he allows Butters’s to flagrantly point fingers in the vicinity of his penis and testicles in _private_.  Jesus Christ.  He glances around, and fortunately, no one seems to be paying him and Butters any mind.  In a lower voice, he adds, “And don’t call them little Erics. That’s stupid. And mine are motherfuckin’ huge, thanks very much.”

“Alrighty, then. I ain’t responsible for your ‘big’ Erics,” Butters says flatly.  “You happy now?” 

“No, I’m not _happy_ , fuck you, Butters!” Cartman cries, giving in to his frustration.  “And stop talking about my balls, it was a fucking figure of speech to express how much I wanna strangle you right now for being a stubborn, ungrateful piece of shit.”

“Callin’ me names ain’t gonna change my mind.  And stranglin’ me would make it impossible for me to change my mind, ‘cause I’d be dead, so that would defeat your purpose.  You’d be—you’d be breakin’ your own balls, Eric.”

“I told you not to talk about my balls!”

“You’re the one who brought your balls up first,” Butters retorts, crossing his arms and turning away, resolutely fixing his eyes away from Cartman’s face.  

“Don’t you look away from me, asshole,” Cartman growls.  “I’m still talkin’ to you. This conversation isn’t over.”

Butters merely shrugs in response.

“I said _don’t you look away from me_ , _asshole_ !” Cartman screeches, grabbing Butters’s chin and forcing the blond boy to face him.  Butters reluctantly meets Cartman’s eyes, but maintains a cool, dispassionate expression.  Cartman fucking _hates_ it when Butters pretends to be an aloof asshole like Craig, so he digs his sharp fingernails into Butters skin, trying to elicit some kind of reaction. _How come Butters barely has any stubble?_ he wonders.  _Probably too many fairy hormones._

He tries very hard to ignore how soft Butters’s face feels.  

Butters, the pinnacle of stubbornness, knows exactly what Cartman is trying to do, and doggedly suppresses any expression of pain from showing on his face.  Very evenly, Butters says, “Eric, you’re hurtin’ me.” 

Cartman narrows his eyes.  “Hurting you was my _fucking_ intention,” he says unkindly.  

“I know,” Butters says.  “I was just lettin’ you know, since hurtin’ me _still_ ain’t gonna get me to change my mind.”

Cartman groans at yet another failed attempt.  Intimidating Butters into acquiescing obviously isn’t going to work today.  He pushes his fingernails even deeper into Butters’s skin out of sheer spite, and the blond’s eyes widen but don’t water.  In the face of what a fucking limpdick Butters is, Cartman sometimes forgets that the kid actually has a pretty remarkable tolerance for pain—a trait Cartman usually appreciates since it makes Butters a particularly resilient punching bag for his frustrations.  The downside is when Butters _himself_ is the source of frustration, and Cartman would like nothing more than to slap a few tears into the boy—only for Butters to come poppin’ right back up off the ground like a freaking whack-a-mole, unfazed.  

Cartman and Butters stare at each other tensely for a few seconds, and after what feels like a little too long, Cartman forces himself to let go of Butters’s face.  He notes with a sick sense of satisfaction the angry, red, crescent-shaped marks on Butters’s chin. _I did that_ , he thinks.

Shaking his head, Cartman puts on a smirk and says, “Touché.  I’d congratulate you for growing some balls, but you’re about sixteen years too late for a boy and I don’t wanna embarrass you by bringing it up.”

Butters frowns.  “Makin’ fun of my masculinity ain’t gonna make me change my mind, either.”

“Like you had any masculinity to begin with,” Cartman grumbles under his breath, too low for Butters to hear.

“What’d you say?” Butters asks unhappily.

As tempted as Cartman is to continue mocking Butters’s manliness—or lack thereof—he’s sort of gotten the memo that being mean isn’t going to convince Butters to do what he wants.  So, even though it feels like filling his mouth with vomit-inducing high-fructose corn syrup, he smiles sweetly at his blond friend and says, “Oh, nothing, _good sir_.  I was just wondering whether saying please would persuade you to reconsider.”

Butters’s pale eyebrows shoot high up onto his forehead at Cartman’s sudden change in demeanor.  Then they shoot up even higher when he finally registers Cartman’s offer. “ _You_ ?” Butters asks in disbelief.  “You’d say _please_?  To _me_?”

“If it’d get you to change your mind,” Cartman says.  “Would it?”

Butters seems to seriously consider it.  “I’d have to hear it to know,” Butters says sweetly.  “Would you say pleeeeease say please, Eric?”

“P—” Cartman begins, before choking on the word.  Jesus Christ, if only people like Stan and Kyle knew what a secret sadist Butters actually was, maybe they’d spare a moment of sympathy for Cartman.  Just thinking of saying the damned word is so fucking humiliating—so _degrading_.  “P—luh—” he unsuccessfully tries again.  

“Yes?” Butters says with unnatural patience.  God, this kid is an incarnation of evil.  

 “P-p— _please_ , Butters,” Cartman finally manages to sputter with great difficulty.  “Would you _please_ consider getting one stupid little tattoo?”

In hindsight, it’s so retarded, really. All this back-and-forth persuasion and cajoling just to try and convince Butters to get a _motherfucking tattoo_.  After all, what better way for Butters to reinvent his image and present his namby-pamby little Christian self to South Park in a completely new light?  It had come as a spontaneous but ingenious idea to Cartman, and he suggested it to Butters without any idea of the discord it would trigger. If only Cartman knew how violently opposed Butters would be to the idea, he wouldn’t have wasted the effort of even bringing it up.  But now that he has, there’s no way he’s backing down and conceding defeat, because Butters’s only equal in hard-headed stubbornness is Cartman himself, and the two of them have gone to metaphorical war over even dumber subjects.  

Butters _will_ get a tattoo if it fucking _kills_ Cartman.    

Butters is silent for a few moments, allowing the sweet and rare sound of Cartman saying _please_ to linger in the air and sink in.  Then he looks at Cartman and says, with barely a trace of guilt, “Sorry, Eric.  But I was lyin’. I wasn’t ever gonna change my mind...I just really... _really_ wanted to hear you beg.”

Cartman can hear an inner voice chortling “ _That’s what she said_!” in a manner suspiciously similar to Kenny.  He quickly pushes it away before his inner Kenny can comment further about Butters’s unintended double entendre.  “What if I said _pretty_ please?” 

“Nnnnnope.”

“Pretty _preeeeeeeeeety_ please?” Cartman whines.

If Cartman’s mom were here to hear her “poopsykins” pleading in that high-pitched voice, she would’ve melted into a puddle of goo and caved in a second.  But Butters is much crueler than Liane. “ _Nooooooooo_ ,” Butters says, drawing out the vowel in a feeble imitation of Cartman’s voice.

“Would you say yes if I…” Cartman furrows his brows and gropes for a suitable incentive to offer to Butters.  “...If I let you suck my dick?”

Butters looks completely startled, then cracks a small smile.  Cartman is a bit wary of the fact that the first crack in Butters’s stony facade throughout the entirety of this conversation was drawn out by the proposal of cocksucking.  More specifically, _Cartman’s_ cock. 

“Th-that’s tempting,” the boy says at last, his eyes flickering briefly to Cartman’s groin.  “But—but I’m gonna have to decline.”

 _Butters thinks sucking my dick is tempting_ , Cartman thinks.   He swallows, unable to articulate a comeback.  He doesn’t want to dwell on the disappointment he feels regarding Butters’s refusal. He coughs.  “Well, I was lying when I said I’d let you _anywhere_ near this big ol’ donkey dick _anyway,_ ” he says, trying to sound smarmy, but his voice cracks embarrassingly and it only ends up sounding awkward.

Butters arches a delicate eyebrow and looks at Cartman doubtfully.  The blond had inherited his father’s sharp eyebrows and can arch them like Cara fucking Delevingne.  It makes Cartman feel strangely inadequate, even though it probably wasn’t Butters’s intention to make the brunet feel that way.  

“Why’re you torturing me like this, Butters?” Cartman moans.  “After everything I’ve done for you! Think of Hello Kitty, Butters!”  He glares pointedly at the pink shopping bag that Butters is cradling in his lap.

Cartman is, of course, referring to the pair of Hello Kitty slippers he'd purchased on Butters’s behalf this morning.  After requesting another plate of spring rolls (which Cartman consumed mostly by himself), he and Butters had bade Mr. Kim goodbye and walked the short distance from City Wok to the South Park Mall—thankfully without running into Stan and Kyle again.  At the mall, heads had immediately turned to goggle at Butters, who was still clad in his nightclothes—Cartman even recognized the same gaggle of girls who’d giggled at Butters in Stedman’s class last Friday, pointing and giggling at Butters _again_ .  In an astounding display of stupidity, Butters had assumed that the girls were laughing at his blackened, tattered slippers rather than at his _literally-just-rolled-out-of-bed_ look.  The blond immediately rushed to obtain a replacement pair of slippers at the mall’s newly-opened Sanrio store.    

Only to realize that because Cartman had dragged him out of the house with little warning, he had no money with which to purchase anything.  The disappointed blond had eyed the fluffy, pink, Hello Kitty footwear with unbridled longing and desire. Meanwhile, Cartman had tried to dismantle a Badtz-Maru pencil sharpener and kill himself with it before Sanrio’s mawkishness suffocated him.  It was only when Butters was just about ready to scramble all the way back home to retrieve his wallet that Cartman ceased his suicide attempt in favor of manhandling Butters in place; he’d expended too much energy getting Butters _out_ of the house this morning to risk letting the blond airhead go _back_ .  After an extremely conflicted period of internal deliberation, Cartman decided to pay for Butters’s stupid slippers with _his own damn credit card_ .  It was most _definitely_ not out of affection for Butters, but because sacrificing $24.99 was preferable to listening to a pouty Butters carp about his beloved Hello fucking Kitty for the rest of the day. 

A grateful, ecstatic Butters had hugged the grumpy brunet and promised to pay him back as soon as he had cash on his person again; still, handing over his Mastercard as the cashier rang up Butters’s new slippers ranked as one of the worst experiences in Cartman’s life.  

Regretfully, the happy gratitude Butters had displayed this morning is all gone now.  Instead, Butters frowns and pulls his Sanrio bag closer to his chest in a protective manner.  “B-bitch at _me_ all you want, Eric, but you leave Miss Kitty outta this, Mister!”

“No!” Cartman protests, pounding his fists loudly on the table in front of him.  “I’ll talk about your retarded mouthless butt buddy however much I fucking want! _I_ paid for her! You’re the one who’s being a bitching bitchy _bitch_!”   

“Now LISTEN here, Eric, there’s no point tryin’ to guilt-trip me—I already said I’d reimburse you for these—“ 

“No, you _SHOULD_ feel guilty, you fucking _FUCK_!  In fact, every time you take a single fucking step in those faggy slippers, you should feel ashamed of what a selfish, despicable piece of CRAP human being you are and how much I fucking _hate_ you—”

“Jesus, Eric, those words are all mighty hurtful but I know deep down in my heart I didn’t do anythin’ wrong—”

“You’re such a piece of shit that even a mouthless ignoramus like Hello Kitty probably hates your stupid guts.  There’s no one in the whole wide world ‘cept for YOU, Butters, who would choose to pay the great Eric Cartman’s legendary generosity with bitchiness and attitude—”

“If you asked for MY honest _opinion_ , Eric—why, I don’t think you’re very generous at all, and Hello Kitty’s got a whole lot more reason to like me than to like you—what with you callin’ her a, a m-mouthless ignoramus, an’ all that crap—she’s a real _nice_ kitty so she doesn’t _hate_ you but she probably doesn’t care about—why, she probably doesn’t give a freaking rat’s ass ‘bout you at all!”

“Well fuck her in her hairy asshole!” Cartman exclaims, pounding his heavy fists on the table.  

He and Butters are sitting in the mall food court, and their altercation is already causing other patrons to look their way with varying degrees of startled and disapproving expressions.  In anger, Cartman reaches across the table in an attempt to snatch the accursed kitty-branded slippers from Butters, but with a yelp the blond jumps away with his annoying lightning reflexes.  In the process, however, Cartman’s half-full glass of Coke is knocked over. 

“Aww hell no, my Coke—I wasn’t done with that!  Butters, you dirty cocksucking BITCH!” Then Cartman realizes that the cup had just so happened to spill all over his half-eaten bucketful of chicken nuggets, rendering them soaked in fizzy beverage.  “MY NUGGETS! Butters, I’ma fuckin' MURDER you—I’ll pull your intestines out through your hairy vagina—”

Before Butters can respond to the gruesome threat, the mall security guard (the same guy Cartman had hired as security for Cartmanland all those years ago—effing _traitor_ ) saunters over to the feuding duo and says, “Boys, I’m afraid you’re being a disturbance to the other customers.  I’m gonna have to ask you to tune down on the volume and vulgarity, or take it elsewhere.”  

“Oh geez,” Butters begins apologizing.  “We’re real sorry—”

But Cartman is having none of that.  “No _fucking_ way—SUCK MY BALLS, you pathetic little PG party,” he says loudly, snickering when several scandalized parents cover their children’s ears. “Screw you guys, I’m goin’ home.”  He flips the security guard off, turns on his heel, and stalks away.  

He hears Butters offering apologies left and right, pointlessly attempting to do damage control with a bunch of idiots who don’t give a shit.  After one last apology for the disturbance and a muted, embarrassed goodbye, Butters gathers up all of the shopping bags from his and Cartman’s few hours at the mall and hurries after the brunet. 

Cartman and Butters walk side-by-side out of the mall, silently fuming and not speaking or even looking at each other. It’s only when he’s exited the building that Cartman remembers they’d walked here this morning; it’s a damn shame because he’d really like nothing more than to shut himself up in his car with a bag of potato chips.  Instead, he settles for heaving himself down onto the mall’s front steps and pulls a cigarette out of his pocket.  

As Cartman lights up, Butters drops the bountiful of clothing purchases onto the ground next to the smoking brunet.  Instead of sitting down next to him, however, Butters scowls and clasps his hands tightly behind his back and paces back and forth.  Cartman watches him silently, and for the second time this day he is thrown back down memory lane—but this time, it’s not a doe-eyed, gullible Butters that he sees; it’s the brooding Professor Chaos, who, despite his general incompetence as a supervillian, had skirted the edges of true mania and harbored more resentment towards the world than most had ever given him credit for.  

Cartman and the rest of his friends had cast aside their juvenile superhero identities long ago, treating those events as nothing more than a slightly violent, childish pre-tween game.  Butters, the lone true supervillian of the group, is the only one whose alter ego has actually bled into his actual character in the long term.  No one but Cartman seems to recognize it, of course. No, when others see Butters holding his head high, or laughing malevolently at someone’s random misfortune, or pacing about with the frowning expression he’s currently wearing, they think it’s because Butters has grown up.  No, they’re all wrong—it’s just Butters showing another side of his same, fourth-grade self, a side that’s been there all along. And only Cartman realizes that Butters only starts acting like Chaos when he’s truly been pushed to his limits.  

That means Butters isn’t just being a pain in the ass right now just ‘cause he feels like it; he’s actually really fucking upset.  Cartman wracks his brain. How the fuck did this happen over the course of today?

After all, the Sanrio store affair this morning had left Butters in a positively jubilant mood. Afterward, he’d practically galloped around the entire mall like a gay fucking unicorn or some shit, drooling over the gaudiest jewelry and the most nauseatingly garish dresses.  It had annoyed Cartman so much that he’d been tempted to murder Butters in a mall full of witnesses, and he’d had to forcefully remind himself that he’d already ruled out Operation Murder-Butters.  The current operation was to get Butters a goddamn chick.  And something had to be done about Butters’s current wardrobe in order for that to happen.   

Still, despite Linda Stotch’s tendency to dress her son like a nerdy douchebag, Cartman came to appreciate the fact that Butters’s fashion sense had never been left to its own devices.  It’s evident that given the choice, Butters would go to school every day dressed like David fucking Bowie—on steroids.  For this reason, Cartman had barred Butters from choosing any item of clothing or accessory, completely dismissing the blond’s opinion as the worthless crap that it was.  The blond had grumbled a little bit but had otherwise relented to letting Cartman take the reins as per usual. 

Cartman had sent Butters to the fitting rooms with every imaginable combination of shirts, jeans, belts, jackets, and shoes.  The kid took for-fucking- _ever_ getting changed each time, but the fruits of Cartman’s labor were _almost_ worth it whenever Butters emerged decked in something that actually looked really fucking good on him—which, Cartman was secretly jealous to admit, was pretty fucking often.   Cartman will die before admitting it, but he’s always liked dressing up; it gives plasticity to his physical image, allowing him to manipulate it at will, unlike his, er, big bones.  And Cartman gets the same kind of thrill when he sees Butters sporting outfits that _he_ chose, because _he’s_ the one manipulating Butters’s pitiful image into something presentable.  

A bit too much of a thrill, though.  

Butters, on the other hand, had paraded about in all of Cartman’s chosen outfits with shameless enjoyment; the blond would twirl before the mirror and preen at himself, winking at and fishing for compliments from other passing customers. If he hadn’t known Butters better, Cartman would’ve guessed that Butters was trying to flirt.  Alas, the cheerful blond merely wanted to share his excitement with other people, and remained oblivious when they coquetted in return.  

Cartman wanted to tear those people to shreds. He couldn’t understand it; why should it enrage him if other people wanted to bone pathetic little _Butters_?  Jesus Christ, that was _their_ loss.         

Butters had still been smiling when Cartman asked (well, more like ordered) him to try on a leather jacket (which, the brunet had noted with a bit of envy, Butters was _just_ innocuous enough to pull off without looking like a tool; Cartman himself certainly couldn’t achieve that effect, but only because he was too awesome to begin with).  It was only when Cartman shoved a pair of thick, black shades onto Butters’s face to match the jacket that the blond’s smile had faltered.  Cartman, far too preoccupied with how the shades themselves looked on Butters’s face, hadn’t paid it any attention.  

But from then onward, Butters had become increasingly listless, abruptly losing all the momentum they’d built up over a morning of shopping.  At first, Cartman had been relieved that Butters was no longer being hyperactive and loud, but he started getting pissed when Butters reacted noncommittally to some _seriouslah cute_ outfits that Cartman had chosen for him.  Cartman had eventually grown tired of dragging Butters’s skinny ass around like a dog that thought it was going to be put down.  They’d already bought enough clothes for Butters to last two weeks without repetitions anyway, so Cartman decided he’d suffered enough (on a Saturday, no less!) to reward himself with a small feast in the food court.  It was there, while Butters was rolling up the sleeve of his newly-purchased sweater to avoid getting French Fry grease on it, that Cartman had realized that the bare, porcelain-like skin on Butters’s forearm was a perfect canvas for a tattoo and that he should totally get one.  After all, any wannabe could dress up a bit and look marginally less shitty, but it took _guts_ to get a tattoo—and guts were the kind of thing chicks swooned over, right?  And even though Cartman still considers Butters a wimp of a monumental degree, he knows that the blond can take a tattoo gun just fine—Butters’s steely tolerance for pain does come in handy from time to time.  

So it isn’t fear of pain that’s got Butters’s man-panties in a twist, Cartman concludes.  He follows the blond’s antsy back-and-forth pacing with his eyes, and suddenly Cartman feels a bit calmer.  Maybe it’s because he and Butters are alone, now, but also, there’s always a strange hypnotizing effect when he just sits back and watches Butters, sometimes.  

“Are you being a pussy because of your parents?” Cartman asks.  After all, he can only imagine how grounded Butters would be if his parents found out he got a tattoo, regardless of its efficacy in snagging their supposedly undesirable son a heterosexual partner.  

But Butters shakes his head.  “It ain’t ‘cause of them,” the blond replies.  “I mean...I _would_ be awfully grounded if Mom an’ Dad _did_ find out—in fact, I’ve no idea how I’m even gonna get away with goin’ to school wearin’—” Butters gestures halfheartedly at the shopping bags lying next to Cartman— “all that.”

“Just tell ‘em you have to take the early bird bus to school for a project or something,” Cartman suggests, quickly concocting a plan in his brain.  “But instead of going to school come to my place to get changed.” The brunet suppresses the fluttery feelings that arise at the idea of Butters getting changed underneath the Cartman roof.  “And after school, come to my house again and change back to your momma’s boy clothes.  Your stupid sweater should hide the tattoo well enough—”

This time, it’s Butters whose fuse is blown.  “For the last fuckin’ time, Eric, _I ain’t gettin’ a tattoo_!”

“ _Why. The. Fuck. Not_?”

Butters stops pacing and looks at Cartman strangely, seemingly nonplussed by Cartman’s question.  Cartman realizes that it’s the first time since the beginning of this long, stretched-out argument that he’s actually expressed any curiosity in Butters’s reasoning.  After all, Cartman normally doesn’t give half a crap about Butters’s thought processes.  

Butters hesitates as though he’s unwilling to share.  “My...my body—it’s God’s creation,” the blond begins to ramble in a high-pitched, wavering voice.  “It’d be a sin to—to make changes—modifications, if you will—”

“Butters, don’t preach that fucking bullshit to me,” Cartman swiftly cuts him off.  

“It ain’t bullshit, Eric!”

“It _is_ , and don’t pretend you don’t think so, too,” Cartman says darkly.  “I fucking know you, Butters, and I know you care a lot less about faith than people give you credit for.”  It’s an ironic conversation to be had between two former members of Faith+1, but God has forsaken both of them (or as Cartman likes to put it, fucked them without so much as a courtesy lick) so many times that any traces of belief have pretty much been burnt to a pile of ashes. 

Butters falls silent.  He brings his fists together but drops them back to his sides at the last minute.  He resorts to pacing, but is so full of nervous energy that he nearly stumbles. He stops and starts pulling at his pale hair.

Cartman sighs. He pushes the shopping bags off to the side and pats the ground next to him.  “Sit down, Butters,” he commands.  

Cartman’s authoritative voice causes Butters to swivel at Cartman; there’s a wild, unfocused look in the blond’s eyes. Cartman meets Butters’s glazed eyes with steely resolve, unwilling to back down.  The brunet watches, as though in slow motion, as the tension slowly drains out of Butters’s body.  The blond has never been a very good vessel for anger and frustration, unlike Cartman, who functions best when he is angry and frustrated and uses those very emotions tas fuel for his demented actions.  Oh, Butters does get angry and frustrated, no doubt—but he’s off-kilter and unbalanced when he does.  

Shakily, Butters sits down next to his friend.  Cartman’s breath catches at Butters’s sudden proximity, but the blond doesn’t seem to notice.  They sit there for a while, not looking at each other or speaking.  For those few moments it feels like there’s no one in the world but the two of them, and Cartman is almost content just listening to the sound of Butters’s breathing.

Butters is the one to finally break the silence.  “I may not being doing it…’cause of fear of God or nothin’, but I...I’d really prefer to keep myself...clean.  Er, i-if I can help it." 

“Clean?” Cartman snickers.  “Butters, you do realize that getting a tattoo does _not_ mean the same thing as fucking a silly bitch, right?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Butters denies.  “Just...the idea of markin’ yourself forever an’ ever.  I mean, I’ve got...I’ve got enough scars already.” Butters laughs mirthlessly and Cartman frowns at the implication.  Butters’s skin is so marble-white that it’s difficult to discern the healthy skin from scar tissue, but upon closer inspection, the belt-shaped welts along his back, stomach, and thighs are all there.  It’s something that makes Cartman slightly uncomfortable to think about, so he doesn’t. But this is the first time Butters himself has ever even skirted the topic.  

“Butters,” Cartman says, trying his best to sound patient, “I know you’re pretty dumb, but you can’t possibly be stupid enough to think that scars and tattoos are remotely the same thing, right?  For one, tattoos are actually cool as shit. And, I mean, some people even use tattoos to _cover up_ their scars.”

“Aw, Jesus, I know that, Eric,” Butters replies. “I know that’s the way it really is, but I can’t help seein’ ‘em as, like, like—different breeds of the same animal, y’know?  Like, one’s a cute lil’ chihuahua an’ the other one’s a big bad bulldog—but at the end of the day they’re both really just doggos. You know what I am saying?”

“No, Butters.  Try explaining it to me in a language that isn’t nerd or retard.”

“I mean they’re both permanent, Eric.  And, I dunno, ain’t permanent things kinda scary?" 

Cartman snorts.  “Nothing is scary to _me_ ,” he boasts. 

“Oh...well, I guess I ain’t as brave as you are, Eric,” Butters shrugs.  “I don’t like the idea of gettin’ a tattoo, and then, not bein’ able to change it, or wash it off, or do any freakin’ thing to it.  Not like temporary things...y’know what, those are alright.  At the end of a lousy day you can just scrub off all the yih-yicky stuff an’ the next day you’re all new an’ dandy again!”

“Tattoos aren’t yicky, Butters.”

“I know, I know, but it’s just—why they gotta just _stay_ there?” Butters insists in an upset tone.  
“What if the next day you don’t like it no more?  Heck, you gotta just live with that for the rest of your life?  And when you’d rather just forget about all of it—why, there’s no way you can avoid lookin’ at the darn thing, ‘cause it’s like, like, _right_ there—after all you can’t _not_ look at yourself sometimes, like when you shower, an’ stuff—and then it’s just a no-good, lousy reminder, o-of all the godawful crap that ever happened to ya—”

“Overdramatic bitch,” Cartman complains, clapping a large hand directly over Butters’s mouth to silence the nervous, Tweek-esque ramble.  Butters splutters against Cartman’s hand in surprise, his warm, wet tongue briefly grazing the sensitive skin on the fleshy inside of Cartman’s palm.  The moist appendage quickly retracts back into Butters’s mouth, but for a fraction of a second Cartman feels his brain shut down at the fleeting sensation.  Butters does not even seem to realize the extent of the reaction he’s wrought upon Cartman, or if he has, he doesn’t show it. Cartman feels another wave of resentment for Butters rising within him.  For how long has he allowed the pathetic fag to exert such a significant power over him, so effortlessly?  He rips his hand away from Butters face. 

“Well, what in the name of Satan’s shitty asshole is so FUCKING traumatizing about today that you wouldn’t wanna have it permanently carved into your fucking skin?” Cartman asks angrily, and only half-sarcastically.  “Because I’VE half the mind to get a fucking tat on MY forehead that says, ‘February 23rd—the day Butters almost made me KILL myself by being more of a gay asshole CUNT than usual’.” 

“Wuh-well, you said we can’t hang out no more after today,” Butters replies softly.  “I’d hate to be reminded of the beginning of somethin’ so sad, because you—an’ Kenny—are my best friends.” 

Cartman’s scathing reply fizzles away on his tongue, and he finds himself momentarily speechless.  There’s a twinge in his cold, steely heart that feels dangerously close to fondness for the inexplicably sentimental blond boy.  But the twinge is quickly replaced by a stab of fury.  The kind of fury he feels towards Token for having a nicer car and a nicer house than him.  

It’s jealousy.   

...Of Kenny.  The-poorest-asshole-in-South-Park Kenny.  _Butters’s other-best-friend_ Kenny. 

“Why don’t you go ahead and get McCormick’s name tattooed to your fucking cock, then?  Because it sounds like you and that poor piece of _shit_ are gonna be BFFL’s for-fucking-ever.  ‘The Only Property That Kenneth McCormick Can Fucking Afford’;—yeah, that’s totally what your tat should say, because the poor asshole’s too broke to have any other possessions other than the single _lousiest_ one—shit like _you_ , Butters.  That’s you.”

“No, I wouldn’t wanna get a tattoo like that,” Butters rejects, “because of the obvious reasons and also, I mean, I do love Ken an’ all—” at this, Cartman clenches his fists in his lap—”but he reminds me too much of—” Butters falters, then brings a shaky hand up to his left eye.  “O-of this,” he finishes in a whisper.  

Cartman’s anger towards Kenny is interrupted by more memories; this time, it’s memories of young Butters’s agonized sobs as Kenny’s fateful ninja star lodged itself deep inside his eye socket.  Usually, Cartman’s recollections of the memory are dominated by the feeling of his own fear of getting in trouble with the adults, but this time, the sound of Butters’s screams somehow echo a little louder and more pitiful in his mind.  

“And that’s why I really don’t see what’s the darned point of even gettin’ a tattoo.  Or any of this, really,” Butters mumbles, gesturing at their shopping bounty.  “I mean, I _could_ wear a pair of neat-o sunglasses an’ maybe get a girl to like me, but what if she wants to kiss or somethin’ and the glasses, they fall off, and she sees that underneath all the fancy clothes an’ stuff, I still got a face so fuh-fucked up only my mother could love it?”

“Oh, Jesus _Christ_ , dude,” Cartman groans, slapping his forehead.  He’s beginning to understand why Butters had turned so dour when Cartman made him try on the shades. “You’re so dramatic, like, I _totally_ can’t even.  Are you seriously still pissed about what I said this morning?”  

“I ain’t pissed at ya, Eric,” Butters says.  “You ain’t said nothin’ but the truth nohow. My dad really _does_ think I’m an ugly, half-blind disfigured fuck, Eric, and y’know what?  He’s right. I mean, bein’ half-blind really ain’t disputable, and if the ladies really dig looks that much—which they sure they do, all right—I don’t know how much all these fancy clothes are gonna help me.  My mom, she cries every night ‘cause she thinks no one’s ever gonna wanna marry me and I’ll die a frickin’ virgin. Maybe Dad’s right—muh-maybe I’ll really end up marryin’ Kenny ‘cause he ain’t a chick and he doesn’t judge me for my eye—aw shucks, what am I saying, Kenny wouldn’t settle for me when he’s already a magnet for beautiful people—”

“Ay, stop right there, fag!  Stop giving Kenny all the fucking credit! It’s not like _I_ judge you either!”

“Then I guess I’ll end up marryin’ you, then,” Butters says, and, before Cartman has the chance to recover from this jarring proposal, Butters bursts into tears.

“Fucking _fuck—_ ” Cartman exclaims in a combination of shock and horror.  “Okay, so like, for the record, I’d rather fuck a pile of horse shit than marry you, but is the idea of marrying me so fucking repulsive?”

Butters sniffles and wipes his eyes.  “That ain’t it. I’m just—I’m just a goddang fool for even _thinkin’_ for a second that you’d settle for me, either.  I don’t like thinkin’ about it, but every time I look at the mirror I just _remember_ how worthless I am to you guys—even as a friend none of ya even thought I was worth takin’ to the f-fuckin’ hospital, not even Kyle who’s always so righteous and stuff.”

“That’s ‘cause Kyle’s a dirty Jew and Jews always backstab their friends,” Cartman says quickly, even though he knows he was equally guilty in delaying Butters’s hospitalization.  Even with his penchant for twisting his perception of reality to suit his own purposes, Cartman remembers all too clearly making the suggestion to kill Butters and bury his body to hide what they had done.  There’s little doubt that Butters remembers it too, and Cartman hopes that Butters doesn’t point it out.  He hates himself for feeling a little bad about what he’d done.  

Butters doesn’t say anything, to Cartman’s relief, but to his chagrin, the blond continues to sniffle quietly, his cheeks blotchy and stained with glistening tears.  Cartman always feels uncomfortable when Butters cries.  If it were any other one of his friends shedding tears, Cartman wouldn’t hesitate to jump on their case and tease them with the relentlessness of a raging bull.  But with Butters, Cartman’s daren’t indulge in this way—perhaps it’s because of the countless times Butters has patiently held his hand at his bedside, handed him tissues, and rubbed his back whenever Cartman himself was having a crying fit about this or that that upset him.  As such, making fun of Butters for being a crybaby would be a dangerous gamble, since Butters has triple the amount of ammunition to use against Cartman.  Ever since the A.W.E.S.O.M.-O incident, Cartman has erred on the side of caution when it comes to testing Butters’s capability for blackmail.  

But that’s only a fraction of the reason why a crying Butters makes Cartman uncomfortable.  It’s because of the ever-present urge to comfort Butters the same way Butters does him. Cartman blames the urge on the little bit of bestial, animal instinct left inside him that instructs him to reciprocate, like the way certain species of monkeys help pick fleas off of each other.  Usually, Cartman is able to suppress these savage desires, but on occasion he allows himself to pat the poor kid on the back or ruffle the hair on his stupid blond head.  

However, in light of the witchcraft that’s cursed Cartman to have such...embarrassing reactions to the mere thought of Butters’s body, the brunet is doubly reluctant to touch Butters in any gesture suggestive of affection.  But on the other hand, if he continues to do _nothing_ , Butters will just continue crying, and that doesn’t solve Cartman’s problem.  Cartman finds himself a disheartened and more than a little astonished by the fact that his tattoo crusade is up against a much more formidable enemy than he’d foreseen: Butters’s insecurity (of which the kid has many, all deep-seated and severe) about a six-year-old injury.  Cartman never even realized Butters still felt so strongly about it.

That leaves only one thing left for Cartman to do.  He feels his heart sink. Ah, all the sacrifices he makes for stupid Butters’s sake.  Earlier he resorted to _begging_ , and now he’s about to say— 

“I’m sorry.”

Butters’s shock is almost audible; his sniffling ceases so abruptly that it’s almost comical, and Cartman is only prevented from laughing because of his own thundering heart.  Try as he might, he can’t will it to calm down. 

Butters stares at Cartman, attempting to respond but unable to fully articulate a single thought.  The blond cannot remember the last time Cartman ever demonstrated the slightest inkling of remorse (if it ever even happened at all), and for an actual apology, genuine or not, to _actually_ fall past the bigoted boy’s cruel, condescending lips—Butters would sooner believe that a meteor were about to hit the earth, annihalting the planet’s civilizations and zombifying its people—

Oh. Well, that might not be the most ideal example, but still: hearing Cartman apologize (to him, no less!) might just be on the top of the comparatively short list of things Butters _wouldn’t_ believe.

Meanwhile, Cartman is unable to pry his eyes away from Butters’s frozen expression.  Tear droplets are still clinging to Butters’s pale lashes, but it seems that even they have been suspended from falling.  “The least you could do is say something, ungrateful turd,” the brunet coughs awkwardly.

Butters is finally jolted out of his stupor, leaping to his feet and away from Cartman as though trying to put distance between the two of them.  “Golly, you—who are you and what’ve you done to the real Eric Cartman?”

Incensed, Cartman clambers to his feet as well.  “Ay, I take offense, asshole! I can be nice!”

“It’s not that I don’t believe that, Eric, it’s just…”  But Butters trails off, because he does, in fact, _not_ believe it.

“I-I-I’m just tired of you giving all the other guys all the credit!” Cartman defends, flustering at his embarrassing stammer.  “It wasn’t even my fault! It was Kenny who took your eye out, anyway, and he’s not the one who’s gotta deal with your disgusting snot and tears.”

Butters flinches at Cartman’s words, hastily wiping his eyes and nose with the back of his sleeve.  Dismayed, Cartman momentarily forgets his private vow not to touch Butters and grabs the upset boy by the crook of his elbow.  “Hey, cut it out, jerk. That sweater is new, don’t ruin it with your gay germs. Wipe your face with your old turquoise abomination.”

Butters squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from Cartman.  “You’re givin’ me a right headache with all o’ these mixed signals, Eric.  First you say you’re sorry, an’ then you say it wasn’t your fault. If ya think that, how can you be sorry?”

“You’re really gonna make me say it, aren’t you,” Cartman sighs defeatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose.  “Look. I’m only doing this because you’re an oversensitive, overdramatic, PMSing bitch, and ‘cause I fucking hate it when you cry—” Butters’s eyes widen at this, and Cartman quickly amends— “it’s fuckin’ lame, and you know how much I hate hanging with lameoids.  But I’m _sorry_ , okay?  Even though it was really all Kenny’s fault, and even though we let you live despite all the fucking _trouble_ you caused us.  And you’re not completely innocent either, you know.  You screamed so fuckin’ loudly my ears are still ringing.  Like, you totally could’ve, like, caused me permanent hearing loss.”

“Oh, oh I’m...sorry.”

“Don’t mention it, freak.  Anyway, I still have enough goodness in my heart to _forgive_ you for your degenerate behavior, Butters, and...where was I going with this.  Oh, right.” Cartman clears his throat. “And I’m sorry we didn’t take you to the hospital, and turned you into a dog.  I mean, I can’t really be held responsible for what I did as a dumbass fourth-grader, I was still a virgin back then—” never mind the fact that he still _is—_ “and Kyle is at least 85% guiltier on the account of being a Jew, and Kenny is still the one who stabbed you in the first place—but I’m a bigger man than the rest of those chodes so here I am, sayin’ that what they did wasn’t cool.”

Butters’s teary eyes are shining with emotion at this point, a small smile playing on his lips.  Cartman silently lauds himself for having such a way with words. Gross and weak as the word “sorry” might be, the brunet feels _good_ having said what he said.  Like a burden he didn’t know was there had been lifted—he feels lighter now.  He can’t help but feel a surge of pride—all the adults, including Cartman’s own _mother_ , always dote on Butters for having the ability to “turn frowns into smiles for free”.  Yet it’s Cartman himself who has the power to turn their golden boy’s frown upside down.

The surge of power prompts him to continue. “For the record, Butters, you made a far better dog than you did a human.  A bit on the disobedient side, but still.”

“Buh-but how could I have?  The vet, he tried to euthanize me—“

Cartman blinks in surprise, having not known the details of Butters’s disastrous vet visit.  But he shrugs it off, retorting, “Oh come on, Butters, haven’t you learned by now that anyone with a college degree is a fucking quack?  It was probably a crazy chink who wanted to slaughter you and eat your delicious dog loins.”

“I don’t think the vet was Chinese…”

“You just got half-blinded.  You saw wrong,” Cartman nods affirmatively.  “Anyway, as I was _saying_ , before you _interrupted_ me like a dirty _human_ —you make a good bitch.  If art and music and all those other faggy things you like so much don’t work out for you—which they almost positively won’t, those are pussy careers—then you should totally make becoming a pet your plan B.”

“Oh Eric,” Butters says, voice dangerously tremulous with gratitude.  Despite the condescension and the multiple jabs at his interest in the arts, Cartman had just _complimented_ him and such was an honor bestowed upon almost nobody.  “D’you really think so?”

“Of course I fucking think so, I wouldn’t’ve fucking said so if I fucking didn’t think so,” Cartman snaps, rolling his eyes impatiently at the awe and disbelief in Butters’s voice.  Not that Cartman thinks Butters has much to be _proud_ of, but the kid’s lack of self-esteem is just pathetic sometimes. “You know what I can’t fucking stand about you, Butters?”

Butters worries his lip.  “W-well, what?”

“I can’t stand how you’re always feeling so fucking sorry for yourself,” Cartman spits.  “Yeah, sure it sucks that your eye is fucked up and that you won’t ever have a normal life.  But you have no idea how many people wish they could have a cool scar like yours. Remember that time Clyde cut up his face in sixth grade and told everyone he slipped in his bathroom and hit the fucking doorknob?” 

“Oh, oh yeah. Poor Clyde,” Butters nods sympathetically. 

“No, don’t pity the stupid asshole, Butters.  He didn’t slip in his bathroom. He tried carving up his own face with a knife because he overheard Bebe talking about how cool you looked—not that it fucking worked, though.  Donovan was too much of a pussy to do anything permanent.”

Butters’s eyes are the size of saucers.  “ _W-w-what_?” he shrieks, as though his entire perception of reality has fallen apart, which is probably the case, anyway.

“Don’t sound so fucking surprised, Butters.  I’d argue that Kenny did your ugly mug a favor by cutting it up. It makes you look like a motherfucking pirate, bitch!  What’s cooler than that? The only problem was that the rest of you never could hold a candle in comparison. But once you reinvent yourself for good, I swear on Kenny’s permanent death that you’ll look so badass, Mr. Garrison will try to rape your hot ass.”

Cartman finishes his passionate speech with gusto, feeling like he did a hella good job.  _If that doesn’t cheer up the sad sack, I don’t know what will_ , he thinks.

Which is why the brunet is utterly bewildered and dismayed when he witnesses Butters’s bottom lip wobbling dangerously, eyes once again glossy with a sheen of moisture.  

But instead of breaking down in tears anew, Butters launches himself at his friend and envelops all of the brunet in a bear hug.  This time, Cartman is completely unprepared for the attack and has no time to push the clingy blond away, and is thus subject to being treated like Butters’s personal teddy bear.  

And then Butters laughs.  His voice is broken and hoarse, but it’s an undeniable sound of happiness.  Perhaps even relief. Being shorter than Cartman, Butters’s face aligns with the former’s shoulders, and even through the layers of his jacket Cartman can feel the warmth of Butters’s stuttering laughter against his collar bone.  The brunet shifts uncomfortably, torn between wriggling his way out of Butters’s surprisingly strong grasp or staying the fuck still so that he doesn’t unnecessarily rub his body even _more_ against Butters’s body.

“Aw, Eric,” Butters says warmly, face still buried in Cartman’s red jacket.  “No one’s ever said nothin’ so sweet about my face before. It’s always, ‘Sorry you can’t see outta your left eye, Butters,’ and ‘gosh it’s too bad that you look like that, Butters.’  You know what? Screw ‘em! Maybe I won’t be so sorry ‘bout it after all! Heck, I got half the mind to go ‘ppreciate the mirror right now! I oughtta text Kenny right now, tell him thanks for what he did for me—”

“No, don’t bother,” Cartman hisses a bit too vehemently, taking advantage of their positions to slip his hand into Butters’s pocket and take his phone.  “Kenny still deserves to die for what he did.”

“Aw, Eric,” Butters says, for once not sounding the least bit mad about Cartman’s threats to send his other-best-friend to the netherworld.  “I don’t know if what you said about Clyde and Bebe is real, or if you’re sayin’ all this just to make me feel better, but I guess it don’t matter.  What matters isn’t how people see me, it’s how I see myself and everyone else is bound to catch on at some point, right? Gosh, I can’t believe I was upset ‘bout this whole thing but I’m feelin’ dandy again and it’s all thanks to you, best friend.”

Cartman’s only intentions had been to stop Butters from being a mopey PMSing bitch, but if the blond takes it to mean that Cartman was trying to teach him an important life lesson, like hell Cartman’s going to correct him.  

And, for once, what he said isn’t at odds with the result, because in a way, Cartman _is_ trying to cheer the blond up—and Clyde, in a manner all too characteristic of a massively insecure tool, really _had_ tried to turn himself into a cool-looking scarface back in middle school.  It’d been Tweek, in one of his nervous rambles, who’d unintentionally ratted out the real reason behind Clyde’s facial injuries amidst a nervous ramble on one of the days Butters was absent.  Cartman and the gang had found it hysterical that Clyde would try to imitate _Butters_ to impress a girl, but they’d never gotten around to making fun of the blond about it because it was around that time that Butters’s mental health had taken a severe dive.  Even Cartman had forgotten about the Clyde ordeal in the face of Butters’s psychosis.

The proximity of the two events, however, had caused Clyde to develop a weird love-hate fear-worship jealous frenemy relationship with Butters—one that, predictably, Butters _still_ remains oblivious to.  

Of course, Cartman has no intention of divulging that information to Butters _now_ , lest it inflate the blond’s head.  So he focuses on Butters’s gratitude and bitterly mumbles, “Told you I could be fucking _nice_.”

“So you can be,” Butters smiles.  To a mixture of the brunet’s disappointment and relief, Butters relinquishes his tight embrace, though Cartman isn’t spared for long because Butters replaces the hug with the even faggier gesture of taking hold of both Cartman’s hands.  In a tizzy, Cartman looks around wildly, afraid that there might be witnesses to the moment.  

_So privacy makes you not-want to not-hold hands with Leopold, huh?_ Cartman’s ever-annoying and persistent inner Kenny snickers.  

Before he has the opportunity to rip the Kenny-like asshole a new one, Cartman experiences the strangest thing—an out-of-body experience, as if he’s standing to the side, looking down at himself holding hands with the rosy-cheeked blond boy with a not-entirely-unhappy expression on his face.  And as though he’s watching one of those cheesy chick flicks he secretly enjoys, rather than himself and the dumb kid he’s known since kindergarten, Cartman randomly wonders, for once without any disgust, anger, or prejudice: _Are we gonna kiss?_

Blissfully ignorant to his counterpoint’s incredible meta-experience, Butters abruptly ruins the moment, releasing Cartman’s hands and cheerfully standing up, giddily spinning in a circle like a fucking ballerina for good measure.  Clasping his hands together as he turns to face Cartman, Butters exclaims, “Y’know what, Eric! I’m done bein’ so scared all the fuckin’ time. I was scared about kissin’ Sally back in fourth grade, but I did it and became a man. So I’m gonna get that scary tattoo and become a, uh—uh—a better man!”

It takes Cartman a moment to gather his bearings as he blinks himself back into reality.  But when he’s finally able to digest Butters’s excited declaration, he’s easily able to forget the intimacy of the moment they just had.  He releases a screech of indignance so loud that Butters covers his ears.

“Jesus, Eric, maybe you should be careful about not givin’ _me_ hearing loss!”

“That’s all it took?” Cartman fumes.  “Here I was digging out my fucking eyeballs—and _all_ I had to do was tickle your fuckin’ fag bone to get you to agree?”

“No,” Butters denies petulantly, crossing his arms against his chest, “there’s no such thing as a ‘fag bone’, Eric.”  Then a bittersweet smile stretches across the blond’s face. “I was fuckin’ scared, okay? Actually, I still am.” He shivers.  “But you gave me something worth rememberin’ about today, and even if we stop bein’ friends forever and ever after this, I don’t wanna forget the good ol’ times.”  Butters pauses as he ponders something. “But I ain’t gettin’ no tattoo on my wiener, Eric! I wouldn’t do it for Kenny and I ain’t doin’ it for you, either.”

And even though the notion of _anyone_ , let alone Butters, getting their dick drilled with a tattoo gun should incite nothing but alarm and disgust, Cartman’s first reaction is, somehow, to feel offended.

“Fuck you,” Cartman mumbles.

* * *

That very night, Linda Stotch lies in bed next to her husband, trying her very hardest not to think about the uninspired sex she just had with him.  Like most nights, her mind quickly settles upon her favorite topic: her son Butters, the child she had once tried to kill. She can’t say she hasn’t thought about doing it again since the first time; ironically, the son she constantly considers killing is also the main reason Linda continues to find purpose in life.

But tonight, her thoughts aren’t revolving around filicide, but around Butters’s relationship with his friend, Eric.  Though she’s known Liane’s son for most of his life, Linda can very honestly say that she doesn’t know him at all. But of course, most people in South Park would say the same about the volatile Cartman kid.  Linda’s pretty sure that Liane herself doesn’t know her son well at all.

But Butters—Linda’s precious, beautiful Butters—why, he’s the one person who actually seems to know who Eric Cartman truly is underneath that foul exterior.  And this worries Linda, because she’s seen the way Butters looks at Eric sometimes. It’s like looking at a mirror into her past. Butters, even with his disfigured eye, looks _so_ much like younger Linda—much more like her than he does Stephen—but never so much as he does when he looks at Eric Cartman.  Linda is pretty sure Butters is unaware of the “look” himself, because in her youth, she hadn’t realized that the way she looked at the handsome brunet meant she’d fallen in love with him—the man who would one day cheat on her with other men.

How the heck Stephen doesn’t see it, Linda has no idea.  It’s how she used to look at him, after all. Then again, Linda might just be crazy.  Stephen and the doctors always insist that she is, anyway.

As if on cue, Stephen suddenly pipes up, “You know, maybe I misjudged that Cartman lad after all.  He always seemed a little crooked, but he can’t be so bad if he’s gonna help Butters get a girlfriend.  For some reason that slippery son of ours can never listen to our instructions, but he always listens to his." 

Linda doesn’t say anything as she ponders the issue.  Butters may remind her of herself, but Eric Cartman isn’t anything like her Stephen, aside from the color of their hair.  Stephen, for the most part, is a stiff and orderly man with wild insecurities, while Eric Cartman seems to be a violent and passionate scoundrel born with the self-confidence of seven men.  

But not this morning.  This morning (at least for a little while, until he’d dragged Butters out the door), Cartman had eaten her breakfast and humored her conversation like a gentleman.  A _charming_ gentleman, just like the young brunet who’d come to her house back in Hawaii and asked her father for her hand in marriage, back before Linda was a Stotch.  

It’s the one time that Eric Cartman reminds her of Stephen—the _old_ Stephen, the one she fell in love with (and, to be honest, is _still_ in love with)—that Linda actually feels truly terrified.  

“Linda?  Linda, are you listening to me?” 

Usually, this is the point where Linda mindlessly agrees with whatever outrageous opinion her husband is fixated on at the particular moment, but she finds herself lacking in energy to even hum her endorsement tonight.  She screws her eyes tightly together and feigns sleep. Stephen continues calling for her for several more minutes before giving up. Linda is thankful that this isn’t one of those nights Stephen shakes or slaps her awake.

What horrid thoughts! _I really must be crazy_ , she decides.  

In the room next to the master bedroom of the Stotch residence, Butters Stotch is not even attempting to sleep.  His entire arm left arm aches from his new tattoo (Eric was right; his long-sleeved sweater warded away suspicion from his parents), but the swirling confusion in his heart overrides the pain.  

For all his fear of getting permanently inked, Butters feels strangely underwhelmed.  He can barely understand why he was so stubbornly reluctant at first. After all, Butters loves art, and his tattoo makes him feel like a living piece of artwork.  Already, he’s trying to decide where he should get his next tattoo.

But no: Butters’s confusion isn’t actually coming from his new tattoo.  Or rather, it’s about one specific part of his tattoo—three miniscule but elegant cursive words hidden on the inside of his wrist.  He’d requested those three words from the tattoo artist at the very last minute, deciding, on a mere whim, to have those three words etched onto his body forever.  

_Eric Theodore Cartman_

Butters tells himself he wanted a tattoo of Eric’s name because he wanted it to serve as a reminder of his best friend, who’d given him the courage to get the tattoo in the first place.  Who had, despite being the most callous asshole in the universe, soothed some of Butters’s lingering psychological pain from the ninja star incident. It was something that lingered like a storm cloud over Butters’s psyche every day, and the blond had resolved to living the rest of his life in _spite_ of the storm.  But suddenly, like a great ferocious wind, Eric had blown most of those grey clouds away, and Butters could see the sun again.  And somehow, Butters knows that Eric was the only who could’ve done it. No amount of apologies from Kenny could equal the comfort Eric had just given to him today.   

“Yes, Eric is my best friend,” Butters whispers out loud, gingerly tracing the loopy “E” of Eric with his right index finger. 

Still, something in the back of his mind tells him that it’s something more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I wrote 10,000 words where basically nothing happened. I promise that the plot returns full swing right away in the next chapter. 
> 
> A bit of explanation of the way I decided to portray Butters this chapter: considering Butters's incredible sensitivity and the way he's treated, in no way do I think he wouldn't have severe trauma and insecurities relating to the ninja incident—especially as a teenager who's constantly being judged by his family and friends. To hear an apology from his most unremorseful friend would, at least in my opinion, shake his being to its very core. 
> 
> As for Cartman: Learn to do a fucking apology properly, man. You're lucky Butters took it so well.
> 
> Also, I hope you guys enjoyed that little bit of insight into Linda's character at the end, there. One of my favorite parts about writing romantic ships is exploring how other characters perceive the "golden couple". I really don't hate Linda, and I think she's much less mindless than she seems. But she's hopelessly unstable and not all of that is her fault, either. I kinda wanted to shed light on how Butters got some of his personality quirks from his mother.


	6. Forbidden Fruit

“...up, wake up, sweetheart, it’s time to get ready for church,” someone’s saying.  A gentle hand shakes Butters’s shoulder, and the sleepy teenager groans, reluctant to depart his dreams.  Memories of it are already slipping away from him...but Butters is certain that Eric was in it, and that it was very pleasant.

The person trying to shake him awake right now isn’t Eric.  After all, Eric would _never_ encourage Butters to attend church.  Hadn’t Eric just accused Butters of lacking faith not so long ago, when they were arguing outside the mall…?

It’s only much, much later that Butters realizes he should’ve known it wasn’t Eric from the get-go, because Eric would never touch him so gently, nor call him sweetheart...right?

 _Right_?

At the present, though, Butters has nowhere near the mental capacity to be thinking so much nor so deeply.  He groans again and tries to escape the persistent hand on his shoulder by turning his body away and burrowing his face deeper into his pillow.

But then there’s a gasp and the hand on his shoulder suddenly lets him go, as though burned.  Butters still can’t quite comprehend what’s happening, but when he realizes that his dream has well and truly abandoned him, he finally relents and allows his heavy eyelids open.  Immediately, his vision is assaulted with the morning sunlight streaming in through his window and a pair crystal blue eyes that would’ve mirrored his own if one of his weren’t clouded with blindness.  His mother’s are wide with shock and what looks like a tiny bit of fear.

But she’s not looking directly _at_ him.  Butters follows her line of sight, and the sudden dread in his heart jolts him to full wakefulness.

During his sleep, the left sleeve of his pajamas had ridden up just enough to expose a bit of his wrist—not enough to reveal the entire tattoo, which encircles his entire forearm—but _just_ enough to boast the three cursive words.

Internally, he curses himself for his carelessness.  Normally, he wakes up far earlier than either of his parents, and he’d counted on doing the same today.  He’d have taken care to hide his tattoo from his mother when she came in to wake him. A desperate corner of Butters’s mind prays that he’s actually still asleep, that his dream simply turned into a nightmare.  Of all days to sleep in! Why hadn’t he woken up?  Even the best dreams in the world aren’t worth his parents finding out about...this.  

“Butters, what did you... _do_?” Linda whispers.

If he’d had the presence of mind, Butters might’ve tried to laugh it off as a prank played on him by one of his friends, but rational thought has left him.  He bolts upright and yanks down his sleeve, but the damage has already been done.  Butters knows what she saw, and she knows that he knows it. His hasty action only served to confirm his guilt.

“I..I…” he stammers.

Butters looks away, not daring to meet her intense, piercing gaze.  Linda is definitely the gentler of his two parents, but she’s not above corporal punishment when Butters has been appallingly bad.  

This is definitely one of those times. It’s not even like he did something wrong by accident, which often is the case.  No, his parents had _specifically_ warned him against this.  “Your mother didn’t go through the agony of birthing you for you to bastardize your body with ink,” Stephen had said.  Oh, Butters can only _imagine_ the horror his poor mother is feeling from the realization that he’d not only bastardized it, _on purpose_ , but had done so with the name of the boy who’d once almost tricked Butters into sucking his _cock—_

“...I ironed out your church clothes last night while you were out with your...friend,” Linda whispers, “and hung them up in your closet, sweetheart.  Do you want me to help you with your hair?”

Disbelieving his ears, Butters carefully opens his eyes and looks at his mother.  His gut lurches when he sees that even though he’s pulled down his sleeve, she’s still staring at his wrist, her attention very much focused upon it.  

But for some unfathomable reason, she’s not bringing it up, and even though Butters is itching to know her thoughts, he can’t bring himself to bring it up, either.  “I...what?” he says. Discombobulated as he is, he’s already forgotten what she’d just asked him.

“I asked if you wanted my help with your hair, honey,” Linda says.  She lifts her eyes from his wrist, hesitates for a second, then squeezes Butters’s shoulder whilst offering him a tight smile.

 _Play along_.  “Um, no.  I mean, uh, w-what I mean, is, I’m fine, Mom,” he splutters.  He normally lets his mom comb and gel his hair on Sundays, but he can’t stand to be around her for a moment longer than necessary right now.  “I can do it myself, today, and uh—thanks for ironing my clothes—I’m sorry I forgot to do it.”  

“Don’t worry about it,” Linda says distractedly, “it’s what mothers are for.”  Butters bites down the retort that he’d been grounded for forgetting the very same chore just a few weeks ago.  Linda squeezes her son’s shoulder again, this time so hard that it hurts, but she lets go before Butters has time to wince.

Butters spends the rest of his Sunday in a perpetual state of jitters.  His mother’s discovery looms over him like an ominous shadow. He feels like he’s awaiting his execution, but for him, the Ultimate Moment of Doom isn’t death: it’s when Linda finally decides to tell Stephen.  The plain truth is that Butters’s dad is much scarier than his mom, being much easier to anger and prone to much heavier-handed punishments.  

But all through church and for the rest of the day afterward, Linda, most bizarrely, remains silent, and keeps Stephen in the dark.  It’s a blue moon indeed when the usually-meek woman decides to do something without her husband’s knowledge or involvement, especially where their only child is involved.

As if to throw Butters even more off balance, this Sunday finds said husband in an unusually chipper mood.  Butters usually counts his blessings when his father’s spirits are high, but today, he can’t help wishing that his old man would just _shut the hell up_ .  Eric’s assurances of Butters’s popularity among South Park High’s female population, as well as his promise of helping Butters score South Park High’s “hottest bitch” for the upcoming school dance, had fanned the flames of a sort of boyish, childish excitement in Stephen, and now the man just _won’t stop talking_ about Butters’s prospective girlfriends, and about his future daughter-in-law, and how they’ll have their honeymoon in beautiful Hawaii, and all the kids they’ll have, and how he hopes that Butters will name at least one of them Stephen after their good old grampa—

“Oh, Stephen, I don’t think I’ve seen you this excited in _ages_ ,” Linda says, giggling at her husband like a schoolgirl, ignoring Butters as he shoots her looks of incredulity.

“Of course I am, Linda, I’m a father who’s just found out his son actually has a chance at being happy someday.

Butters knows that Stephen is just projecting his own desires onto Butters.  Really, Stephen only ever wanted to be happy, right? Butters’s dad had faithfully followed the supposed formula to happiness: gotten a wife, a job, a house, a son, yet the man still finds himself discontent with life. 

Yet, all Butters is able to feel today is an aching, deep-seated resentment towards his dad for being so _motherfucking stupid_ as to think that what couldn’t make _him_ happy would make Butters happy, too.   

That night, Butters is plagued with disturbing dreams.  He’s strapped down to an operating table while his mother stands over him with a cold, clinical expression on her face...his father sits in an undignified heap on the floor in a far corner of the white, white room, sobbing his eyes out and looking so, so disappointed in Butters...in a corner of his mind, Butters puzzles at the role reversal, because if anyone it would be his mom doing the bawling and his father to be doing...whatever it is his mother is doing right now—what _is_ she doing, anyway?  It’s giving him the creeps…

That’s when Butters notices the scalpel that’s clutched in her gloved hand, and the way her emotionless eyes are fixed on his exposed wrist, on his thundering pulse...Butters realizes what’s she’s about to do— _she’s about to cut Eric Theodore Cartman’s name out of Butters’s skin…_

...And the notion is suddenly so terrible that Butters opens his mouth to scream, to beg for mercy, to plead for her to stop…

...Then, Butters becomes aware of a warm, rough hand carding gently through his hair, and turns his head as much as he is able to find _Kenny_ , of all people (who is, for some unfathomable reason, _shirtless_ ), sitting by his side with a sad, sympathetic little smile on his face, petting Butters in a gesture of comfort, though Butters derives no comfort from his friend at all…

“It’ll be over quickly,” Kenny says cryptically, smile not leaving his face...Butters feels himself beginning to hyperventilate.

“I don’t want you,” he wants to cry desperately, but his voice comes out as nothing more than a scratchy whisper.  “I don’t want you, Kenny! Eric...where’s Eric?”  

But there’s no Eric.  Kenny continues petting, Stephen continues crying, and Linda’s cruel scalpel continues its definitive descent...and as always in his fucked up, demented, pathetic life, Butters is ignored by everyone around him...

Butters wakes up with a start, covered in sweat while his pounding heart threatens to pummel its way out of his delicate ribcage.  He isn’t sure whether the prickling on his wrist is phantom pain from dream-Linda’s scalpel, or if it’s just residual tingling from the actual tattoo job.  

It’s two hours before the sun is set to rise, but Butters flings himself off the bed, almost fearful of falling back to sleep.

Slipping his feet into his new Hello Kitty slippers, Butters paces the perimeter of his room in a tizzy.  Whenever he’s feeling particularly vulnerable, Butters always wishes he could slip into his most prominent childhood alter-ego and release his bottled emotions in destruction and mayhem.  The thought makes him itch to fish out his phone from under his mattress and talk to Dougie, but Butters restrains himself.  Oh, there’s no doubt that his faithful second-in-command would answer if Butters really did call—the middle-schooler still looks up to Butters with stars in his four eyes for some reason the blond teenager himself can’t understand—but it’s four in the fucking morning, and Butters cares about Dougie’s education enough not to disrupt the kid’s sleep on a school Monday.  

Butters wonders, if he were to become Professor Chaos for real and for good, whether he could convince Eric to join him in supervillainy.  The Professor and The Coon fucking up the big bad world, beholden to nothing and no one except each other...not the law, not their overbearing parents, not their worthless friends...  

He smiles.  Gosh, that would make Butters the happiest fella on the planet...

But the blond violently puts a stop to his impossible fantasy.  It’s never wise to rely on Eric for his happiness.

The raccoonish superhero/villain wouldn’t give one whit about Professor Chaos’s happiness, would he?  Butters’s happiness around Eric has always been a lucky consequence of Eric’s actions, but never Eric’s direct intention.  Even when Eric does the rare thing that seems to benefit Butters exclusively, there’s always some ulterior purpose lurking underneath.  And the brunet would just as gladly _sacrifice_ Butters’s happiness if it would bring benefit upon himself.  

“You’ll understand someday, why we warned you to stay away from fatass,” Kyle constantly tells Butters with pity in his fiery green eyes.  Sometimes, Butters despises the way Kyle treats him like he’s fragile, or worse, stupid.  Seriously, why does Kyle always think that Butters doesn’t understand the risks?  _Butters_ is the one who spends most of his time with Eric, _not_ Kyle.  The blond may have been oblivious to Eric’s selfishness in elementary school, but he’s _not_ that ignorant little boy anymore.  As his best friend, Eric’s true nature is all too clear to Butters, but Butters had decided he was okay with it, because life as a callous asshole’s companion and sidekick is never not exhilarating and oh-so-very-interesting.  Kyle, so fiercely independent, with Stan always hanging off his every word, can never understand how Butters feels.

Stan, then, Butters thinks with a bit of wild desperation, Stan would understand, wouldn’t he? Stan is bold in his own right, but in his relationships first with Wendy and later with Kyle, the black-haired teen has always taken the role of the follower.  Stan would understand the happiness reaped from simply being in the presence of an important person. 

But there’s a major difference between Stan and Butters.  Being around Kyle may be what makes Stan happy, but inversely, it’s _Stan’s_ happiness that makes _Kyle_ happy.  Stan’s feelings _matter_.

Butters’s feelings...don’t.

The memory of Eric’s apology for the ninja star incident suddenly loses its rosy tint in Butters’s mind, turning grey and crumbling to ash.  Oh yes, Eric had said _sorry_ , but only to shut up Butters’s crying.  And what of Eric’s bizarre fixation on getting Butters a girlfriend?  On the surface, it seems like a benevolent gesture, which can only mean that Eric feels there’s some even greater reward he can gain out of it.

“If you wanna nail a chick, then after today, you can’t...you can’t hang out with me anymore.”  That’s what Eric had told him, wasn’t it? Coupled with Eric’s strange, erratic behavior from the previous week, it suddenly becomes all too clear: the brunet boy has finally tired of Butters and has been finding a way to rid himself of their friendship.  And this—this convoluted scheme of makeovers and girls and school dances— _this_ was Eric’s solution.  

Butters isn’t prepared for the wave of sadness that crashes into his very soul, overtaking his previous restlessness.  Why had it taken him so long to figure this out?  Because he’s a gullible fucking idiot, that’s why.  A shrill voice that sounds suspiciously like Kyle’s declares, “I told you so!” into his mind’s ear.  But imaginary-Kyle _still_ doesn’t understand.  Butters hasn’t had some kind of magical epiphany about what kind of person Eric is: he’s known all along.  It’s Butters himself who has changed, who has gone from being okay about Eric’s disregard for his feelings to suddenly being very not okay with it.

A stray tear falls from Butters’s undamaged eye.  He wants nothing more than to crumple to the ground and drown in his misery, but instead, the blond straightens his back with steely resolve and swallows his pain.  Eric wants to get rid of their friendship, huh? Fine, then. Fine! Butters will go along it with it, but he’s not going to make it easy. The brunet is going to find out that the price for abandoning Butters Stotch isn’t cheap.  

Eric isn’t the only one who knows how to be sadistic.  Butters just chooses not to act on it. Most of the time.

Feeling suddenly calm, Butters stops pacing and retreats to his bed.  With his slippers still on, he collapses on top of his bed and stares sightlessly at his ceiling.  He smiles.

 _I really must be crazy_ , he thinks.

* * *

When his parents finally wake up, Butters lies and tells them that he needs to go to school early for a project, just as Eric had advised him.  It’s a testament to Stephen’s lingering good mood that he cheerily accepts Butters’s claim at face value, forgoing his usual interrogation about what class Butters’s project is for, who he’s doing it with, why he can’t just do it at home, so on and so forth.  Linda, however, pauses in the midst of brewing her husband’s coffee to glance at Butters suspiciously.  Feeling unusually brave, Butters meets her eyes steadily, daring her to say something.  But she looks away and says nothing. Butters feels a fresh wave of contempt for both of his parents and quickly dismisses himself from the table.

At the door, he pulls on his trademark turquoise sweater, which, despite Eric’s ruthless criticisms about its “faggy” appearance, Butters likes very much.  It’s much easier for him to ignore his upsetness when he’s wearing such a lovely color—turquoise _is_ his favorite, after all.  But today, his mood is so poor that not even turquoise can help him.

Liane Cartman is the one who answers the door when Butters arrives at the Cartman house.  Despite the early hour, she smiles at him and doesn’t seem to be the least bit surprised to see him.  Butters smiles and greets her graciously, because none of his current ire has to do with her. He’s always liked Ms. Liane, and he likes to think that she likes him too. 

“Eric’s upstairs taking a shower, I believe,” she tells him in her gentle, dreamy voice.    

Butters nods and silently pads up the stairs.  When he arrives in front of Eric’s closed bedroom door, he raises his fist to knock out of habit.  But then, he decides that Eric doesn’t deserve such courtesy, and pushes the door open without warning.

The blond’s jaw goes slack when he finds Eric sitting on his bed with naught but a towel around his waist.  Eric’s mop of brown hair is damp from the shower he must’ve just finished taking, which causes it to appear a shade darker than usual.  As for the rest of his half-naked body—

Well, it’s certainly no secret that Eric’s got a rather _thick_ body type, to put it kindly.  And even though his corpulence is often the subject of ridicule among their peers, Butters honestly thinks that Eric’s generous figure suits him perfectly; any smaller stature couldn’t possibly contain Eric’s massive, overwhelming personality.  

Eric’s bountiful figure isn’t muffled by his red jacket today: it’s sharply outlined by fair rosy skin and the generous curves of his arms, the broadness of his chest, the roundness of his stomach.  Contrary to Kyle’s oft-repeated jeers, Eric isn’t flabby or saggy as much as he’s full and firm and succulent, like a perfectly ripe peach.

Eric isn’t really muscular, but he manages to look sturdy and forceful, just as Eric Cartman ought to be.  Butters decides then that Michelangelo had been mistaken. The Italian sculptor had given David musclebound beauty and grace in his effort to depict the strongest and most powerful of men.  He’d failed. If Michelangelo wanted strong and powerful, then his David should’ve looked like Butters’s Eric.

_No, stop. Eric’s not my—anything.  We’re not even friends anymore, are we?_

The brunet in question is looking at something on his phone—what, Butters has no idea—with an expression of intensity and rapture on his face that Butters has never seen before.  It’s when a bit too many seconds pass by without any form of acknowledgement from Eric that Butters realizes just how engrossed the brunet is: Eric hasn’t even noticed Butters’s presence.

The fact that he’s somehow managed to catch Eric off guard, for once, instead of the other way around, is suddenly extremely hilarious to Butters: with his eyes still glued on Eric, he lets out a loud, unrestrained peal of laughter.  

Startled, Eric jumps a foot into the air and shoves his phone under his pillow in a panic.  Blood immediately floods his cheeks when he realizes his own state of undress, and he immediately flounders to cover himself up—unsuccessfully, since his clothes are still in his wardrobe across his room. Butters knows that years of being made fun of for being fat have made Eric self-conscious about his body (though he masks it well with denial and insults), and that Eric probably thinks that Butters is making fun of him.  That couldn’t be further from the actual truth, but now that he’s started Butters can’t make himself stop laughing. He laughs until his stomach hurts and tears come to his eyes, and his own voice starts to sound more like pained shrieking than laughter in his ears.

He sees a flicker of hurt flashing across Eric’s amber eyes, but it’s so brief and so out of character that Butters immediately dismisses it as a figment of his imagination. 

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK, BUTTERS?” Eric hollers after he regains a small morsel of composure. “What are you—you were supposed to text me before coming!  You—you—this is _basic decency_ —stop _fucking laughing_ , asshole, and—get out, GET THE FUCK OUT!”

Butters’s laughter does finally calm down a bit, but he doesn’t leave the room like Eric asked.  Instead, he steps inside and closes the door behind him.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Eric hisses angrily.  Then his eyes widen in horror when Butters goes even further and locks the door behind him.  “What the fuck are you _doing_ ?  I _said_ get _out_!”

 _Eric’s really embarrassed_ , Butters thinks to himself in surprise.  He’d not been aware that Eric’s face was capable of turning this particular shade of crimson.  Eric’s overreacting, Butters thinks—the towel’s covering all of his important bits, anyway, and it’s not like Butters hasn’t seen Eric in his birthday suit before.

Although that was admittedly a long time ago, from when they were both children, not virile teenagers.  

Still, for some reason, Eric is getting way more flustered than the situation warrants.

“It’s locked from the _inside_ , Eric,” Butters points out.  “You can leave anytime you feel like.”  Before Eric has the time to escape, however, Butters decides that this red-faced version of Eric is worth immortalizing for posterity.  So he takes his own phone out and, without giving himself the chance to second-guess, snaps a picture of Eric.

Eric’s expression morphs into one of pure wrath.  Butters half expects Eric to charge at him and throttle him, but despite his ire Eric still seems reluctant to even stand up.  “Delete it, Butters,” the brunet commands in a dangerously low tone. “Delete. It. Now. Or. Else.”

It seems borderline suicidal to continue provoking Eric, but Butters supposes it doesn’t matter since Eric is upset with him already.  And the events of the last 24 hours have messed with Butters’s psyche so badly that he sinks into a state of recklessness. “Geez, Eric, that’s a tall order you’re askin’, ‘cause I think this is my favorite picture of you of all time.”

“You—you shouldn’t have _any_ pictures of me at all, _fag_ .  Now. Give me your _fucking_ phone so I can delete—no, you know what? I’m just gonna smash it to fucking pieces, just like the way I’m gonna smash your skull!”

Butters pouts at Eric with puppy-dog eyes.  “But you’re so adorable when you’re blushin’ like this,” he says as he admires the photo.  He’s not even lying. He’s never seen Eric in such a state and he finds he—well, he likes it. 

“I’m not blushing!” Eric insists frantically, although his face betrays him.  “Clearly you need new eyeballs, asshole!”

Butters is pretty sure that Eric didn’t intend the pun, but he smiles wryly at it anyway. “Nah, just one new one would be good,” he chuckles, pointing at his bad eye.  Eric doesn’t seem to find this funny, so after a few moments Butters sobers up and asks, “What were you lookin’ at, Eric? On your phone? You shoved it away awfully fast.”  

“None of your goddamn business!” 

“I just wanna know what could possibly hold your attention like that.  Maybe I’d like to learn from it since I’ve never been able to do the same.”  Butters can’t help sounding accusatory when he says this.

“Yes you—“ Eric begins, but quickly stops himself, horror seeping into his eyes at whatever he was about to say.  

“What?” Butters eggs with burning curiosity.

“I fucking said.  None of your fucking business.  Seriously, Butters. Shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you, or so help me I will personally remove both of your eyeballs with a fork.”  

“If I know what’s good for me?” Butters asks sharply.  “Actually, I have no idea what the heck _is_ good for me, Eric, I’m always tryin’ so hard to do the right thing but I’m always gettin’ hurt in the process. What gives?”

“I’ll tell you right now, you annoying little cunt—get the fuck out right now and I won’t touch single blond hair on your pretty little head.”

“I’ll take the risk, Eric.  I wanna know what you were lookin’ at.”

“ _No_.”

“Aw hamburgers.  That’s too bad,” Butters sighs.  For a moment, relief flickers across Eric’s flustered face: he clearly thinks Butters is going to drop the issue.  Butters wants to laugh aloud at Eric’s blissful ignorance.  Instead, he forces himself to meet Eric’s amber eyes with complete seriousness.  “I was hopin’ you’d just tell me, but since you won’t—I guess I’ll just have to show this picture to everyone and tell ‘em you were watchin’ naughty videos.”

Eric gapes.  “Butters, come on!  Don’t fucking be like this,” he pleads with rage and desperation.  

“Naughty... _gay_ videos.”

“For the love of—I wasn’t watching gay porn, Butters!”

“Sounds to me like somebody’s in denial, Eric!” Butters shrieks gleefully.

“Oh yeah? You don’t believe me?” Eric challenges.  “Well tough luck, because who the fuck is gonna believe you?”

“Lotsa people, if I play my cards right,” Butters says confidently.  “Kyle already thinks I’m stupid, you know. Stan and him are always tryin’ to like—protect me, from adult stuff they think I don’t know about.  All I gotta do is go up to ‘em and be like—’Hiya Kyle, I saw Eric lookin’ at a weird movie of a fella stickin’ his wiener up another fella’s butthole, and they were bein’ awful loud and stuff, it was so freaky!  What were they supposed to be doin’—’”

“Shut it!” Eric thunders, looking stricken.  “Just shut the fuck up, okay? Don’t say anything to that stupid Jew!”

“Then tell me what you were lookin’ at, Eric, and I won’t have to!”

“It—it—it was just some dumb BuzzFeed quiz, okay?”

“What about?”

“About, uh, which Harry Potter character I’m supposed to be.”

Eric’s normally an excellent liar, but the lie is so transparent this time that you’d have to be a rock not to see through it.  “Hmm. Well, which are you?” Butters asks, humoring him.

“Voldemort, obviously.”

“Looks like the test worked for you, then,” Butters can’t help but laugh.  “I took a test like that before and it must’ve screwed up real badly ‘cause I got Bellatrix.  Can you believe that?”

“Of course,” Eric says, rolling his eyes.  “You’re off your shit and just as fucking sadistic.  Oh, and you’re a bitch. Boom.”

“Wait, so it was right?”

“Did I fucking stutter?”

“Guess that means I’m supposed to be in love with you.”

The air between them suddenly becomes charged with awkwardness.  Butters feels his own face growing warm. “Uh, because if I’m B-Bellatrix and you’re Voldemort, you know...and they were like, hmm, yeah.”

Eric clears his throat.  “Right.”

Silence reigns once again.  Butters is still mad at Eric—unbearably so—and he knows that Eric _must_ be bullshitting about the Harry Potter quiz, but Butters doesn’t know how to reignite their argument.  “I’ll pretend I believe you. For now,” Butters says.  

Eric’s face is pinched and miserable, but he seems to realize that this is the best deal he can get.  For now, Butters has the upper hand, though the blond figures that Eric is already mentally plotting revenge. 

“How’s the tat?” Eric suddenly asks.

Butters is a bit taken aback by the abrupt change in subject.  “It’s fine, I guess,” he mumbles, not wanting to be reminded about his mother’s discovery.  Part of him wishes he could share his predicament with Eric, but that would mean having to explain the Eric tattoo.

And Butters has already decided that the only way Eric is _ever_ gonna find out about the Eric tattoo is if Eric decides to become a mortician and finds the damn thing on Butters’s dead body.

“Hurts?” Eric asks.  

“It’s better already.  Stings, a little bit.”

“Let me see.”

Butters stows his phone in his backpack, then gingerly pushes up the left sleeve of his sweater all the way up to his elbow.

The tattoo itself is of a peacock holding a bloodied snake in its beak—it’s an old drawing Butters had drawn at the beginning of high school, and the tattoo artist had replicated it quite nicely.  Eric had deemed peacocks a poor choice for a tattoo, but Butters had insisted. He’s always liked peacocks, not only because they’re fucking _gorgeous_ , but because they’re strong enough to prey on serpents.  Butters thinks it’s symbolic that the most flamboyant and dazzling of birds could overpower a cold, slithery, venomous fanged reptile.  

Even now, Butters can’t help but admire his tattoo—he’s always been attracted to beautiful things, after all.  He knows that the ink will fade with time, but right now it’s still so fresh that the brilliant colors seem to glitter like diamonds on his skin.

“Come closer,” Eric says.

Butters tears his away from the tattoo and looks at Eric in surprise.  He’s half-convinced that Eric’s just trying to lure him closer in order to strangle him for the stunt he pulled earlier.

As if reading his thoughts, Eric sighs and says, “I swear on my mother’s life, Butters, I’m not gonna hurt you.  I just wanna look at it. You’re the only person I know so far who actually went through with getting one.”

Despite every self-preserving instinct screaming at him not to do it, Butters finds himself approaching Eric’s bedside.  He holds his out his arm, and Eric takes it wordlessly, twisting it this way and that in order to look at the tattoo from every angle.  Eric handles him firmly, but surprisingly gently. The look in Eric’s eyes is almost as intense as the one he’d had when Butters had caught him watching whatever-it-was on his phone.  Butters finds his mouth running dry again.

“I told you it would look pretty damn badass on you,” Eric finally says.

“I guess you were right.”

“When am I not?”

That’s when Eric notices the army watch that Butters is wearing around his wrist.  It was a gift from Butters’s dad for his birthday last year, and before today, Butters had never worn it, finding it ugly and tasteless.  However, it seemed as good an accessory as any to conceal Eric’s name from view.  

When Eric moves to take it off, Butters yanks his arm back in a panic.  “ _Don’t_ ,” he hisses vehemently.

“Why?  That thing is ugly as fuck!  You hate that thing!”

“W-well I—I suddenly decided I kinda like it!”

“Fucking bullshit, Butters!  Take the fucking thing off!” Eric reaches out to grab a hold of Butters’s arm again, but the blond catches Eric’s hand and forces it onto the bed.  

“Goddammit, Eric!  I’m not takin’ it off, you can’t make me!  _Don’t you control enough my life already?_ ”

He’s screaming in Eric’s face at the top of his lungs.  A faint corner of his mind registers the surprise on Eric’s face.  This time, Butters is the one overreacting, but he’d already made a big enough mistake letting his mom see those three little words—no way in hell is he letting it happen again.

“I don’t—“

“So help me, Eric, if you say one more fuckin’ word, I’m postin’ that photo on Facebook right now—“

“Okay, okay, fine, Butters!  Keep it on! I don’t care! Jesus fuckin’ Christ!”  

Hearing these words calms Butters down, and he’s suddenly made aware of just how close he is to Eric’s face.  If he stuck his tongue out he’d be able to lick Eric’s nose. Unwittingly, Butters’s eyes travel downwards and he’s reminded of Eric’s state of dress (or lack thereof) with the force of a full-speed truck.  He swallows, overcome with the sudden urge to grope at Eric’s chest to see if it’s really as soft and pleasant as it looks. He quickly lets go of Eric’s hand and screws his eyes shut, feeling as though he might be sick.  

“What’s wrong with you?” Eric demands.

“Can you put some clothes on, Eric?” Butters whispers without opening his eyes.

There’s a beat, then Eric is mumbling about how “I’d been trying to _do_ that before you had to come in all psycho-shit and ruin my fucking day.”  Butters hears Eric get off the bed and walk past him towards his wardrobe. There’s another beat.  Louder this time, Eric warns, “I know my ass is pretty dropdead tempting but don’t you fucking dare peek, faggot.”

“I-I promise I won’t look, Eric.”

“You better not.”  

Butters’s thoughts collide in chaotic disarray as he waits, but he takes his promises seriously so he doesn’t peek. He hears the telltale zipper of Eric’s red jacket and the rustling of fabric.  Butters keeps his eyes tightly shut and only opens them again when he feels a bundle of clothing hit the back of his head.  

He turns around.  Eric is completely covered now, all the way down to the hat that covers his wonderfully luscious chocolate hair and sits snugly over over his ears.  Butters isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed. He also realizes for the first time that Eric’s hat is, in fact, turquoise: isn’t it hypocritical of him to be constantly disparaging the color, then?

“Your turn,” Eric says simply, pointing at the clothes he’d thrown at Butters.

Butters picks up the garments Eric had thrown at him.  As they’d agreed upon, Eric is storing all of the merchandise from their Saturday shopping trip in his room so that Butters could avoid having to take it home and provide a lengthy explanation to his parents.  

It seemed a good idea at the time, but now, Butters doesn’t know if he can stand doing this every single fucking morning, coming to Eric’s house just to get dressed for school.  

With a defeated sigh, he begins shedding his clothing.  The idea of being naked—or at least nearly so—in front of Eric doesn’t really embarrass him.  Eric knows more about him than anyone else in the world, many of them highly humiliating things, so why should a bit of exposed skin bother him?  

When Butters shimmies out of his pants, Eric makes a choking noise from beside him.  Butters frowns and looks down at his boxers—they’re a jarring yellow with Homer Simpson’s face printed all over them.

“Are they that bad?” he asks.  It’s not like Eric doesn’t know that Butters is a huge Simpsons fan.  

“It’s not—” Eric rubs his hand over his face in frustration.  “Stop being a fucking twink and just put your clothes on!” 

Butters shrugs off Eric’s odd behavior.  

The clothes in question are a white T-shirt coupled with a sleeveless red jacket and tight-fitting ripped jeans.  It’s surprisingly simple, given Eric’s dramatic tastes, but Butters supposes that the new tattoo will be enough of a shocker to put everything into balance.  Even so, Butters can’t help but feel a little nervous about wearing this to school. Not that he thinks he looks ugly in them, it’s just...he’s not used to showing so much skin at school.  

“Ain’t it a bit...revealing?” he asks, looking at himself in the mirror.  It was one thing to wear this in a fitting room, but does he really want the whole school to see him like this?  

“You wore a faggy diamond-studded tiara to the bike parade but you’re fucking complaining about this?” Eric gripes.  

“That was different!”

“Or how about Wieners Out, then?  I assure you, rubbing your cock and balls against windows is much more revealing than this.”

“That was a movement!  It was for a higher purpose, Eric!”  Then Butters blushes, remembering exactly what that higher purpose was.  “It was also a mistake, Eric, I swear!”

“Fucking hell, asshole, stop whining.  It looks good. _You_ look good.”

Butters marvels at Eric’s ability to make a compliment sound like an insult.  “Really?”

“Yeah.”  The brunet’s voice is strangled.  “Your dick’s gonna be inside a pussy in no time.”

“Aw hamburgers.”  It takes all of Butters’s willpower not to knock his knuckles together.  “I don’t know about this, Eric. I don’t look—I don’t even _feel_ like myself.”

There’s a beat.  “Well, that’s a good sign, then, ‘cause who the fuck in their right mind would fall for you _as is_?”

It shouldn’t hurt as much as it does.  Butters had prepared himself over and over for the cruelty of Eric’s words, told himself repeatedly not to be affected by it, yet it still manages to strike him like a stab in the gut.  

“I don’t want to prostitute myself just to get a girlfriend, Eric,” Butters snaps.  “I’d want ‘em to fall for me _for me._ But seein’ as you think that’s impossible, then I hope no one ever fuckin’ falls for me, ever!”  

Without waiting for Eric to respond, Butters jumps to his feet.  He shoulders his backpack in one rough motion and storms towards the door.  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Eric demands as Butters unlocks the door and yanks it open.

“I’m goin’ to _school_ , Eric, have you heard of it, or is your inflated head so darned far up your ass that you don’t know where that is?”

“Hey, watch your fuckin’ mouth, fuckface!  You don’t get to talk to me like that!”

“No, I get to talk to you however I want, Eric, because I’m goin’ through all of this bullshit for _you_ , ‘cause I care about you more than I care about girls.  Don’t worry, Eric, I’ll leave you alone at school; I won’t talk to you, I won’t even fuckin’ look at you! Don’t even think about gettin’ any algebra notes from me ever again!  That’s what you wanted, right? I just want you to be happy, Eric! Are you happy now? Are you? _Are you, Eric?_ ”

Lividly, Eric storms up to Butters and grabs the shorter boy by the collar.  “Happy? Read my fucking face, Butters, do I look happy to you? You think I _wanted_ to spend all Saturday at the mall with you and listen to you whine like a faggy bitch?  You think I _like_ having you violate my mornings with your presence?  No, I don’t, because you’re stupid and annoying and goddamn psycho.  I’d rather get an F in math if it meant I never had to have a tutor session with you ever again.  You make me want to shoot myself, Butters, that’s how much you suck. But out of the goodness of my heart, I decided to sacrifice precious hours of my life to try and— _change_ you.  And who knows, maybe after I’m through with you, your batshit parents will actually _love_ you—“

And then Butters does something he never thought he’d do in a million years.  

He slaps Eric.

Hard.  

It’s like a violent clap of thunder, and Eric crumples in pain as his hands fly to his injured cheek.  But surprisingly, he doesn’t cry out, doesn’t even say anything.  

Butters’s heart is thundering in his ears, yet it’s the loudest silence he has ever heard in his life.  His hand throbs from the force with which it met Eric’s face.

After a pause that feels like it lasted a thousand years, Eric slowly lifts his head up to look at Butters. 

There’s no anger in Eric’s eyes.  No; those amber eyes have the _fucking gall_ to look _betrayed_.  

There are a thousand things Butters would like to say to Eric in that moment, so in the end, he says none of them.  

He turns on his heel and leaves.  Eric doesn’t call after him.

On his way down the stairs, Eric’s mom smiles at him and asks him if he wants breakfast.  Butters flushes because there’s no way she didn’t hear his and Eric’s screaming match from the kitchen.  Butters wonders why she’s so unfazed by the fact that he just had a fight with her darling poopsikins.

“Thanks, Ms. Liane, but I’m not hungry.  I—I gotta go.”

“Isn’t Eric gonna drive you to school?“

“No.  It’s fine. I’ll walk there.”

“In this weather?”

Desperate to escape her scrutiny, Butters all but flies out the front door without answering her.  It’s only once he’s outside, and the chilly February wind slices at his bare arms and face, that he remembers that he’d forgotten his turquoise sweater on Eric’s bedroom floor.   

* * *

After bidding goodbye to her mother at the front door, Bebe Stevens wraps her scarf around her face, keeping the cold draft from blowing her long, curly blond hair into her mouth.  She hurries to get inside her Red Toyota. On days like these, she’s glad that she has a car. It’s worth avoiding being outside in South Park’s demented weather, even if it means becoming a personal chauffeur for her girlfriends.  As one of the only ones in her friend group with a car, nary a day goes by when one of them doesn’t demand a ride of her.  

She wonders if, among the boys, Token suffers a similar fate.  Of course, Cartman also has a car, but who’d want to ride with him?

Today, it’s Wendy who’s asked for the ride, and even worse, Wendy wants to go to school early so that she can start setting up for the upcoming school dance.  Bebe thinks Wendy takes her role as student body president far too seriously. But, Wendy is her best friend and the least Bebe can do is wake up a little earlier for her.  

She’s turning around the corner towards Wendy’s house when she sees him—a lone figure with his bare arms wrapped around himself, trudging in the direction of South Park High School.  He’s carrying a backpack that looks familiar enough for her to know that he’s one of her classmates, but with his back facing her and his head bent downwards she can’t tell who he is.  Still, just looking at him is enough to make her shudder with cold, so she rolls down her window, wincing when the wind bites at her face, and shouts, “Dude! You wanna ride?”

He jumps in surprise at the sound of her voice, then swivels around to look her.  “B-b-bebe?” he asks through chattering teeth. 

“Butters?”  She hadn’t recognized him from behind, but once she sees his face there’s no question.  No one has eyes as distinctive as his.  

“Th-th-that’s m-me,” he shivers.

She gapes.  “Butters, you’re freezing!  Oh my god, get in the fucking car!  It’s unlocked!”

But he shakes his head.  “I’m w-walkin’ to school t-today.”

She’d heard of Butters Stotch’s legendary stubbornness through her friendships with the other boys.  But it’s something that must be seen to be believed. _This is just inhuman_ , Bebe thinks as she tries for a second, third, fourth, fifth, _sixth_ time to cajole him into her car, his lips turning blue as he just stands there and refuses.

Finally, she’s so fed up that she steps out of the car and manhandles him into the passenger seat herself.  Even then, he struggles against her grip, but his joints are so stiff with cold that it’s futile for him.

“You’re insane!” she exclaims when she’s finally gotten him where she wants him.  She turns the heat in her car all the way up, and he sags with relief despite himself.

“S-s-s-so I’ve been t-told,” he sighs.  He knocks his knuckles together furiously, and Bebe frowns when she spies their scabbed, bruised state.  But then he turns those captivating eyes on her again, and thoughts of his hands leave her mind. “You’re s-stubborn,” he says.  The chattering of his teeth has already diminished greatly.

“Me?” she gasps in disbelief.  “You’re one to talk.”

He smiles shyly.  “You didn’t leave me behind.  Thanks, I guess.”

“Of course I didn’t.  I don’t want to be arrested for aiding and abetting your suicide, dummy.”

Butters looks shocked by this.  “I wasn’t tryin’ to kill myself, Bebe, I promise I wasn’t.”

He’s desperate for her to believe him, even though she’d just been joking.  Unable to help herself, she bursts out laughing at his pleading expression.

He stares at her, dumbfounded.  “What’s so funny?”

“You.”

She starts driving again, because if she’s late picking up Wendy, her black-haired best friend will most assuredly nag her ear off.  With her eyes on the road, the blond girl considers the blond boy sitting next to her.  

She’s had a bit of a crush on him for years now.  Oh, just the tiniest one, not enough to have made her do anything about it over all this time.  Certainly not enough to stop her from seeing Clyde when they were on and fucking every other guy in South Park when they were off.  She barely ever even _thought_ about Butters, really.  Indeed, the only other times she’d ever even sat in his proximity were when they had classes together with alphabetical eating arrangements.  And this is truly the first time she’s had a proper conversation with him (if their exchange just now could even be considered one, and she will _not_ deign his pathetic fourth-grade attempt to make her his bitch a proper conversation).

But it was just enough to make her stall every time she flicked past his picture in the yearbook, to make her eyes linger on his face for an extra millisecond when he passed by her in the hallway.

Her crush began to develop in middle school, she thinks.  In elementary school, Butters had been nothing more than an annoying, sexist little shit who annoyed the hell out of her and all the other girls.  But 6th grade was a new and exciting chapter, and with it came the unfamiliar new students who’d gone to different elementary schools than her. They all liked to whisper about the strange blond kid with the super-cool, fucked-up eye.  _How’d he get that scar_? they’d speculate, and since Bebe had known Butters through elementary school, she was able to recount that story to them.  And she ended up recounting the story many times, because the girls would look at her with jealous, awestruck expressions when she did and she couldn’t help but crave the attention.

Clyde had noticed, of course.  Clyde has always been amazingly inattentive until it comes to the things Bebe would rather him not know about.  And he’d already been envious of Butters even before that, because Clyde has always secretly wanted to be Cartman’s friend.  Cartman was, is, and will always be a narcissist, which means it must take someone really special in order to hold a narcissist’s attention the way Butters does Cartman’s...at least, that’s how Clyde seems to have seen it.  The fact that Bebe liked talking about the very same special someone to her girlfriends so much just about made Clyde’s head explode in jealousy.  

Ironically, it was Clyde’s jealousy that truly sparked Bebe’s interest in Butters, because being the object of her boyfriend’s jealousy made the blond boy a novelty, a dangerous, enticing, _forbidden_ fruit.  

...Not to mention that puberty had done Butters more than a few favors.

Bebe’s never wanted to actually be _with_ Butters.  Not in the way she’s imagined herself being with Clyde someday.  She doesn’t even really know Butters. But he’s an itch. An itch she thinks will be scratched once she’s made out with him once or twice, maybe fucked him in the back of her car.  She’s had numerous other crushes over the years, and it’s certainly worked for _them_.  

Bebe never meant to put Butters off for so long.  She’s usually able to get fulfill herself over a newfound crush within the space of month, and quickly gets over them after that. But to anyone who’s realized that Butters grew up to be pretty fucking cute and wants into his pants, there’s an obstacle.

One big, fat, and thus far, insurmountable obstacle named Cartman.

Bebe does not pretend to understand the intricacies of the relationship between Cartman and Butters, but she _has_ observed that Cartman treats Butters like his property, and is extremely possessive of Butters just like he is the rest of his property.  One need only to utter the first syllable of Butters’s name to have Cartman breathing down their necks, threatening to grind their parents into chili.  South Park High’s favorite hallway rumor is that Butters and Cartman are, in fact, fucking. It makes Bebe sick thinking about it, because thinking about the fatass in that context _is_ sickening, but whatever it is between him and his much more docile counterpart has certainly prevented either one from fucking anyone else.  

It’s puzzling.  On one hand, the fat fuck uses Butters like a disposable tissue; on the other hand, he flaunts him like a priceless trophy.  Butters is basically his Harley Quinn.

Everyone knows you don’t mess with Harley Quinn.

Bebe takes her eyes off the road for a second to glance at the boy sitting next to her.  It’s hard to draw any parallels between him and a zealous supervillainess; everything about Butters seems to scream innocence, after all.  

The boy is still staring at her with speculative eyes, like he’s trying to figure her out.  Bebe is practically desensitized to the male gaze by now, but Butters’s somehow manages to make her blush.

Bebe clears her throat a bit awkwardly to dispel the silence.  “I hope you don’t mind me picking Wendy up on the way.”

He hesitates. “I don’t mind, but she might, though,” he mutters.  

“What?  I don’t think so.  Wendy wouldn’t mind sharing the space.” Bebe assures him.  “She does it all the time. She and the girls are always riding together with me.”

“Buh-but I ain’t a girl, though.”

“Trust me, I am more than aware of that,” Bebe replies, unable to keep the low purr out of her voice.

Butters’s response is to look relieved that he hasn’t been mistaken for a girl after all, and Bebe isn’t sure whether she’s amused or exasperated that he hadn’t picked up on her subtle flirting at all.

Wendy is already waiting outside when Bebe pulls up in front of the Testaburgers’ dull green house.  Running into Butters had delayed Bebe by five minutes, and mild annoyance at the lateness is evident on Wendy’s face.  However, it melts into understanding when she spots the male silhouette sitting in the passenger seat next to Bebe through the tinted windows of Bebe’s car.  

“Morning, Bebe,” she says as she enters through the back door.  She sits down and immediately busies herself with her seatbelt. “I didn’t think I’d be seeing you this morning, Clyde.”

“I’m ain’t Clyde,” Butters replies stiffly.  

Bebe watches through her rearview mirror as Wendy’s head snaps back up at the unexpected voice.  Her dark eyes widen with immediate recognition. Butters’s voice, with its nasal quality and unique twang, is just as distinctive as his eyes.  All signs of sympathy vanish from Wendy’s face.

“I _told_ you I broke things off with Clyde last Friday, Wendy,” Bebe reminds her friend.

“Again?” Wendy despairs, and Bebe feels annoyance rising within her.  Wendy always harps ceaselessly whenever Bebe breaks up Clyde, and downright condemns the casual sexual relations Bebe engages in during the aftermath. _Wendy’s one to talk_ , Bebe thinks viciously, _she stayed faithful to one boy for years and where did that get her? Him going gay with Kyle Broflovski_. 

“He was being a bitch,” Bebe says shortly.

“Clyde loves you, honey—”

“We’ll talk about this later, Wendy,” Bebe snaps warningly.  

Wendy’s mouth flattens into an unhappy line, but she obligingly lets the topic rest.  Instead, she turns to Butters. “If it isn’t Leopold.”

“Hidy-ho, skank.”

Bebe is so taken aback by the hostility in both their voices that she nearly veers her car right into the Stoleys’ mailbox.  She suddenly wonders whether she’d been too quick to dismiss Butters’s uncertainty about whether Wendy would be tolerant of his presence.  

“So.  Why are you dressed liked a gigolo?” Wendy asks unapologetically.

Confusion emanates from the boy beside her; Bebe realizes that he probably doesn’t know what a gigolo _is_ .  Still, no amount of ignorance can spell away the sheer _meanness_ in Wendy’s tone.  Butters opens his mouth, clearly intent upon returning with an insult, but Bebe jumps in.

“Wow, Wendy,” she chuckles in what she hopes passes off as a jocular tone, “of all times to finally show an interest in clothes, you choose now.  But as the seasoned veteran in the art of fashion out of the two of us, I think I’m more qualified to pass judgment on poor Leopold here. Right, Butters?”  She winks at him.

“Um, right,” he says.  “I guess I’m all yours to criticize, Bebe.  Well, wuh...what’s your verdict?”

Conveniently, the stoplight turns red in front of her, and Bebe takes the opportunity to take her eyes off the road and rake her eyes appreciatively over Butters’s body.  Oh, she’d noticed his makeover, how could she not have—but she hadn’t the mind to bring it up, not when she’d had to manhandle him out of the cold. But now he’s safe in the confines of her warm car.  He’s _inviting_ her to look at him, and he actually wants to hear what she has to say about it—unlike Clyde, who always assumes that throwing on his letterman jacket magically makes him worth swooning over.  

“Your new look...it’s not _nearly_ worth almost freezing your butt off, in February with no jacket,” she says mischievously.

His face falls.  “So you don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.  I said it’s not worth freezing to death in order to look presentable—that’s just fact.  What I _think_ , however, is that you are positively on _fire_.”

Butters looks at himself.  “If I was..,wouldn’t I be dead?”

Bebe can’t stop the laugh that bubbles past her lips.  She wonders whether Butters is truly so naive that he misunderstands her words, or if he’s simply unused to receiving compliments.  “It’s a figure of speech, little buddy. It means that you’re fucking hot.”

From the backseat, Wendy snorts disdainfully.  Her behavior is really starting to grate on Bebe’s nerves.

But Butters is squirming so much under Bebe’s praise that he pays no heed to Wendy.  Taking his reaction as a good sign, Bebe says, “But let’s address the proverbial elephant in the room, shall we?  Or, I guess, it’s more of a peacock than an elephant. Damn, boy. That tattoo!”

His eyes light up, and he raises his left arm proudly.  “You—you like it?”

“Fuck yes, Mr. Eye Candy.”

“Aw geez, me too!  I mean, I thought I’d rather get whooped in the butt than get a tattoo at first, I was so scared, Bebe, you have no freakin’ idea.  But boy howdy, am I glad I did.”

“You know, it’s not often boys are willing to admit they’re scared of anything,” she teases.

Once again, the teasing flies over his head.  “I know. Eric’s just like that.” And then a bit darkly, he adds, “But I reckon he’s just too _scared_ to admit it.  Ironic, huh?”

It takes Bebe a second to even realize who he’s referring to, because she so seldom hears her classmates refer to the fatass by first name anymore.  She supposes the teachers at school do, but Bebe wouldn’t know, because she doesn’t have any classes with him (thank the Lord).  

She grimaces.  It’s not like she ever likes hearing _anybody_ talking about the obese shit, but she likes hearing Butters talking about him even less.  Fielding the conversation away from the subject of Cartman, she says, “You know, I’ve always wanted a tattoo myself, but I can’t imagine how I could possibly get past my parents.  I mean, I don’t think my mom would care, but Dad? He’d kill me!”

Bebe immediately regrets her words.  She’d forgotten who she’s speaking to—complaining about her father to Stephen Stotch’s son probably makes her sound like a whiny bitch. 

But Butters doesn’t seem bothered by her thoughtlessness.  He grins a Cheshire grin so wide that it startles Bebe for a second.  “My dad would kill me too. That’s why I’m not gonna tell ‘im. But Mom...I think she found out, but hasn’t said nothin’ about it.  If she tries to kill me it wouldn’t be the first time, though. Or maybe she’ll just try killin’ herself this time and leave me out of it!”

He laughs like he’s just told the world’s funniest anecdote, and even though Bebe doesn’t find it funny at all, she assumes that it’s some kind of inside joke she doesn’t know about, so she nervously laughs along.  Bebe remembers Clyde once tearfully complaining about how Butters had laughed at him when Betsy Donovan died. Maybe Butters just has a thing for morbid mom jokes?  

“If that’s what your heart’s tellin’ you to do, Bebe, then I think you _should_ get one.  Otherwise, you might drop dead tomorrow, a-and have virgin skin for eternity.”

“At least she’d have virgin _something_ ,” Wendy suddenly points out unhelpfully.

“ _Wendy_!” Bebe hisses in embarrassment.  

“I could help you, if you want,” Butters continues.  He points to the snake-devouring peacock on his arm. “I wanted it to be special.  So this is an old drawing of mine. I could draw somethin’ for you too. You’re pretty enough to get somethin’ unique, I think.”

“Wow,” she breathes.  _Is he flirting with me?_   She can’t be sure, because Butters’s smile and praise are known for being universally warm, no matter who they’re being directed at.  “I had no idea you were this talented, kid. Like, wow. I’ve heard that you’re good at art, but this is like—this is something else.”

The sudden compliments make him shrink again.  “It—it’s not that impressive,” he mumbles. “I mean, I just drew it on paper.  The tattoo artist did a real dandy job puttin’ it on real, live skin. And the rest of this—” he gestures up and down at his clothes— “I ain’t got no credit to claim.  Eric picked out the whole wardrobe.”

“ _Cartman_ did?”  It seems absurd in Bebe’s mind.  Clothes-shopping is something she does with her girlfriends.  It’s hard to imagine the fatass sharing a pastime with her.

But her best friend isn’t surprised.  “Cartman, huh?” Wendy says scathingly.  “So _that’s_ why you’re dressed like a gigolo.  Well then, how much is he whoring you out for?”

Butters frowns.  “What _is_ a gigolo?” he asks quietly, looking like he’d like nothing less than to find out.

“It’s basically a prostitute with a penis.  Tell me, Leopold,” Wendy singsongs mockingly, “does it burn to be used by Cartman the way you used those girls?”

“I—I _do_ have a wiener, but I ain’t a fuckin’ hooker, Wendy,” the insulted boy protests.  “And even if I was, I wouldn’t kiss _you_ even if you paid me a zillion dollars!”

“Wow, no wonder your Kissing Company went under.  The CEO was too stupid to realize that a zillion isn’t a real amount!”

“That’s not—”

“Guys, _stop it_!” Bebe screams.  “And Wendy, what the fuck?  Butters’s, uh, pimp thing happened ages ago.  Why do you still have a problem with it?”

“I don’t have a problem with it _specifically_ ,” Wendy heatedly explains.  “ _He’s_ the one I have a problem with.  His little whorehouse enterprise is just an example of his intrinsically degenerate moral compass.”

“Wendy, that’s unfair.  We all know that’s just Cartman’s influence—”

“That’s just an excuse, Bebe!  You and I are old enough to know right from wrong, and your precious little buddy here should be able to do the same by now.”

“Oh come on, Wendy.  You know perfectly well that he’s—” _a bit of an airhead_ , Bebe almost says, but it seems unkind to say that in front of Butters.  “That you’re smarter than most.”

“No, he _is_ smart, but he’s a follower.  The worst kind. He leeches onto the most powerful person he can find and adopts their opinions for his own, without giving a fuck about whether that person’s good or devil’s incarnate.”

“Stop right there, Wendy, that ain’t true,” Butters suddenly interjects.  “I got plenty of my own opinions that Eric couldn’t be darned with. For—for example, Eric hates you, but I _don’t_ hate you.  And Eric thinks you’re a skanky fuckin’ bitch, and I don’t think that either.  I don’t like you, though, because you act real sweet an’ stuff, when you’re tryin’ to get votes for the student election, but you’re mean to the people who don’t agree with you.  I don’t think you’ve ever been nice to me, and I’m really glad Stan ain’t your bitch anymore so I don’t have to pretend to be nice to you either!”

In the backseat, Wendy is stunned into silence.  Bebe herself feels numb with shock—she’s never witnessed her best friend being taken down so bluntly.  And, sadly, Butters made some fair points. Bebe knows Wendy to be incredibly loyal to her friends, but the Testaburger is lukewarm at best to her acquaintances and downright unforgiving towards those she feels has wronged her.  

Still, Bebe still feels a best-friend obligation to defend Wendy, no matter how much she may agree with the tormentor.  “Butters, honey,” she says cautiously, “you’re completely entitled to your own opinion, but as long as you’re in my car, you can’t be saying these kinds of things about my best friend.”

“Oh hamburgers, Bebe—I’m really sorry,” Butters says, cupping his hands over his mouth.  “That was real shortsighted of me—darn, I feel like such a wiener!”

Taking pity on his obvious devastation, Bebe reaches over and pats Butters on the shoulder.  “Just don’t do it again.”

“Wendy, I can’t take back the truth but I’m sorry for sayin’ it out loud,” Butters apologizes sheepishly, turning in his seat and looking Wendy straight in the eye as he does so.  Through the rearview mirror, Bebe observes that Butters’s charm has completely failed to penetrate Wendy’s defences, and that the resentment in Wendy’s dark eyes only multiplies.  Bebe sighs; Wendy has definitely failed to be the bigger person here. 

The rest of the ride descends into an uneasy state of utter awkwardness, and Bebe has never been gladder to arrive at South Park High School.  Wendy hastens to exit as soon as the car is parked. The blonde girl watches her fuming best friend silently, unsure of what to feel.  

“You said you’d help me set up.  Are you coming or not?” Wendy suddenly asks confrontationally.

Bebe winces and pinches the bridge of her nose.  She doesn’t _want_ to help, partially because she doesn’t really give a damn about how the school dance gets decorated, but mostly because Wendy is currently pissed, and a pissed Wendy is a fucking slave driver.  Bebe glances at her phone. There’s still half an hour before the bell rings.

“Actually, I was thinking of taking Butters back home to pick up his jacket,” she says.  

“No,” Butters objects.

“It’s no trouble—"

“That’s—that’s not it,” Butters sighs, sounding so defeated that Bebe looks at him worriedly.  “I can’t go home right now, my Dad ain’t expectin’ me so I’d get grounded. Besides, my sweater isn’t there.  I left it at Eric’s house by accident.”

“Oh.”  Bebe tries not to let the fact that Butters had taken off and left clothing at Cartman’s house bother her. “Could you ask him to bring it?”

“No,” he says miserably.  “I—we—there was a—f-fight, you see.  We don’t wanna see each other— _I_ don’t wanna see _him_.”

Bebe’s heart leaps with delight.

But Wendy obviously doesn’t share Bebe’s joy.  “No. _No_ ,” the black-haired girl fumes, “I don’t fucking care what kind of trouble you’re having with that sick—with your beloved ‘ _master_ ’—but in the meantime don’t you _dare_ get Bebe involved in your misogynistic, diabolical nonsense.”

Bebe suddenly feels her patience for her best friend snapping completely.  “Fuck off, Wendy, that isn’t up to you. He can do whatever he likes and it’s up to me to refuse or not.”

“Bebe, you can’t possibly be thinking of doing— _that_ —with him—”

“Wendy, we talk about this every single time I break up with Clyde—”

“I know we do, but—this is different!  _Him_?  He’s—he’s just as bad as Cartman—”

“And I don’t happen to agree with you, Wendy!  Besides, I’m in rebound, he’s in rebound, what more could you possibly want?  You want me to admit that I’m a dirty fucking slut? That I can’t keep my cunt to myself for a full 24 hours?  There, I admitted it! At least I’m not pining after Broflovski’s gay bitch!”

Wendy gasps; tears spring to her eyes.  “Fuck you, Bebe!” She wrestles the car door open, tumbles her way out, and slams it so hard behind her that Bebe feels her skeleton rattling inside her skin.  

She and Butters sit in the silence of her car for a long moment.  Bebe expected to feel more upset about having such a bad falling-out with Wendy, but she doesn’t really feel anything other than a slightly spinning head and quickened heart rate.  

“I’m sorry I made you get in a fight with your friend,” Butters mutters demurely.

Bebe barks a laugh.  “Jesus—it’s not your fault.  _I’m_ sorry you had to see that.  She’s always bitchy whenever I break up with Clyde.”

It’s not the whole truth: Wendy, while disapproving, isn’t usually this vehement about her opposition to Bebe’s sexual exploits.  But Bebe’s never considered fucking someone “as bad as Cartman” before. She’d never imagined that Butters Stotch would fall under such a category.

“Wendy really hates me, huh?”

“Seems so.  I really had no idea, buddy, I should’ve heeded your warning. Sorry about that.”

“I’m the one who called her mean, and all that stuff.  But I—I swear I’m not—I’m not a jig-—a jigger—”

“A gigolo?” Bebe supplies with a smirk.

“That,” Butters confirms, blushing.  “I promise I ain’t trying to sell you kisses or anything.”

“I know,” Bebe says.  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.  Even if you _were_ selling ‘em, I wouldn’t really care.”

“And I don’t believe everything Eric says, Bebe,” he adds passionately.  “Eric says he hates you almost as much as he hates Wendy, but I don’t hate you at all.  You’re real nice, and—golly, if you hadn’t picked me up I’d still be waddlin’ through the wind on my way up here right now!”

Bebe supposes that only Butters Stotch could make the words _I don’t hate you_ sound like a declaration of love.  She feels warm for a reason that has nothing to do with her heater.  “Let’s stay in my car,” she says, her voice dropping by a semitone and gaining a husky edge.  “We still have some time before class starts, and we might as well stay warm in here rather than hang around outside in the cold.”

“I don’t mind waitin’ in the library,” Butters says, completely oblivious to the change in Bebe’s demeanor.  “It won’t be cold in there—”

Deciding that the best way to accomplish anything with the boy would be with directness, Bebe reaches over to the passenger seat and places her hand lightly on Butters’s thigh.  He stops talking, his mouth freezing comically mid-sentence. “I want to stay in here. With you,” she says, “and I wanted to ask if anyone’s taking you to the dance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise you, the Bebe/Butters is just a detour from the eventual Cartters. I tried to make it evident that Bebe and Butters don't actually know anything about each other, and that's why their interactions are slightly stilted and lacking in emotion. I'm not usually a fan of "Character A dates someone else to make Character B jealous"; and even though jealousy will definitely occur here, but that's not the reason why I wrote it in. If Butters and Cartman ever get together, I don't want it to be because Eric is the only person Butters ever spends time with: he needs to learn what it's like to have other meaningful relationships, and THEN decide that he still prefers Eric. 
> 
> I don't tend to agree when fanfics make Butters BFFs with the girls. Just because he's sweet (most of the time) does not mean that he's automatically their gay best friend. Canonically, neither Bebe nor Wendy have a good relationship with Butters. Granted, they don't interact all that much, but when they do, neither party is all that amicable. "Are you just an asshole?" comes to mind. And all the girls collectively hated Butters during his pimp and Wieners Out phase. 
> 
> Still, most of it is just general elementary-school rivalry between boys and girls, which is why I think Bebe would have grown out of her disdain for Butters. However, Butters and Wendy are too different to become friends—at least, not without significant effort from both of them. Wendy is a politician and a leader; she judges people based on their principles and doesn't have respect for followers and bystanders. Butters is a loyal friend who judges people with his heart rather than their beliefs, and he sees Wendy as someone who's willing to sacrifice her personal relationships for power. I want to point out, in regard to their argument, that even though we naturally side with Butters because he's our protagonist, Wendy makes a valid point about Butters as well. I don't think Butters is entirely innocent. Canonically, he can petty and vengeful when things don't go his way, and there has to be a part of him that enjoys hurting people if he's going to stick around Eric for as long as he has in this story. Still, it's impossible for someone who hasn't lived through the intense emotions of Butters's and Cartman's relationships to understand. 
> 
> Still, the fact that SP managed to create two sympathetic characters who are so very different from each other is what makes it genius.
> 
> Currently, Bebe sides with Butters because she's already annoyed at Wendy for a being a tad stifling and overbearing (although Wendy does have Bebe's best interests at heart). 
> 
> The part where Bebe remembers Butters laughing about Clyde's mom was inspired by this hilarious deleted scene in "Reverse Cowgirl": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bL1NnrKZbUU
> 
> BTW, I hope y'all didn't miss Cartman's POV too badly. I needed to take a break from him and check in with what Butters is going through. But he'll definitely return next chappie :) Until then, please feel free to tell me how much I suck in the comments!!!!! 
> 
> P.S. Please shoot me in the head for those corny AF Harry Potter and Batman references.


End file.
